


The 2017 Johnlock Advent

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Season/Series 04, TFP never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-11 10:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 43,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12933033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: Cross-postingThe 2017 Johnlock Adventart/fic collaboration I'm doing withchained-to-the-mirrorandhoneybeelullaby.





	1. Day 1 - Ugly Christmas Sweaters

**Author's Note:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 1**

**Prompt: Ugly Christmas Sweaters**

 

“No.” 

Sherlock stares down in horror at the garish colours, the itchy wool, the odd abstract heads of Father Christmas floating in an unending ring-around-the-rosie over the chest, shoulders, back of the jumper his mother has inexplicably sent.“What could Mummy possibly have been thinking?”

John chuckles beside him.“It’s traditional.”He sniffs, shifts from one foot to the other, and then reaches across and lifts the offending garment from the box on the table in front of them.“I mean, it’s funny.It’s just what people do.I’ll be wearing one to Mrs. Hudson’s Christmas do.Lots of people will.”

“Yes well, we aren’t all accustomed to wearing ugly jumpers, John.”

A small shadow of something Sherlock can’t quite interpret, but which is undeniably ‘not good’ shadows John’s eyes.He turns away.“Yeah, well.It’s not for everyone.I’m sure your mum just thought it would be a bit of fun.”

And now there’s nothing for it, and Sherlock has no one to blame but himself and his acerbic tongue.It is unbearable, unacceptable, that slump to John’s shoulders, that tone in his voice.There’s nothing for it, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Sherlock sighs.“Fine.I’ll wear it to Mrs. Hudson’s—thing, and then we’re burning it in the hearth.”John swings around with a grin on his face, and Sherlock rushes in his addendum.“But only if you wear one too.”

“Already said I would.And it’s worse than that one, too.Promise you it will be worth your while.”

Sherlock huffs and stares back down at his vulgar penance.“We’ll see…”

But John’s cheer returns after that.He hums about the flat, tidying, and then hanging fairy lights and tinsel garland from every available surface.And Sherlock realises it’s worth it, it’s worth the little bit of mortification if it means John back in 221b Baker Street where he belongs, with a smile on his face, and a spring in his step, actually looking forward to Christmas for the first time in longer than Sherlock can remember.

In years to come the photo that Mrs. Hudson takes of them, in their horrid jumpers, at what is to become her annual Christmas do, holds a place of honour on the hearth.And though, in it, Sherlock is doing everything in his power to make his displeasure known, and John is clearly at the point in the evening’s proceedings where he stops having fun, and just wants to go back upstairs to the quiet of their shared flat, it’s still something they treasure—for so many reasons.

It was the start of something new.It was the rebirth of ‘them’.


	2. Day 2 - Reading One Another's Christmas Lists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 2**

**Prompt: Reading One Another’s Christmas Lists**

 

“What’s this then?”

“Mmm…?”Sherlock adjusts the dial on the microscope, and scowls; doesn’t even bother to look up.

John looks down at the small piece of rumpled paper in his hand, the one he found on the floor behind the trash bin with Sherlock’s spidery scrawl all over it.“Says: _Sherlock’s Christmas List._ ”

Sherlock’s head does snap up at that.“That was meant for the bin.” _Where did you find it?How did you get it?Dear god above please burn it now!!!_ written all over his mortified expression.

John grins a little wickedly.It is a somewhat cruel, admittedly, but his curiosity is piqued now.“Oh yeah?Let’s see here, what’s it say…?”

“JOHN!”Sheer panic.

“Number one: The purple dressing gown from Harrod’s.”John looks up, and meets Sherlock’s wide and worried gaze.“Nothing wrong with a little posh lounge wear.” 

He continues.“Number two: a tray of Mrs. Hudson’s mince pies.”John chuckles.“Sure she’ll be only too happy to oblige you.”

“John, give it to me.”Sherlock actually gets to his feet, and takes a step forward, holding his hand out in supplication.

But John just grins and backs away, looking down to read the next line.“Number three: a year’s subscription to Guns and Ammo.”John cocks an eyebrow just as Sherlock lunges forward, trying to snatch the paper from his hand.He squirms out of the way with a laugh, and dashes for the lounge, list held above his head, struggling to read.

“Number four!!”He stops dead as the words register with his brain, and Sherlock finally catches up with him, and snatches the paper from his hand in the same instant.

An uncomfortable silence descends between them.John can feel his face heat, and his mouth go dry as Sherlock crushes the list in his fist. 

“Ignore it.Just—pretend you didn’t see it.You’ve made yourself more than clear on the matter.I’ve accepted it.”

Sherlock sweeps over to the hearth and tosses the paper in, before dropping defeated into his chair.“I’m sorry.You were never meant to see that.”

John can’t breathe.He sniffs and wets his lips in an effort to speak.“You want me to move back here?”

Sherlock stares down at his bare toes curling into the carpet.“I thought that was fairly obvious.”

“Sherlock, I—I have a child.I work across town.I have a flat I would have to let or sell.And—it could never be the same as it was.”

“I know.”It’s quiet, almost a whisper, and still Sherlock won’t look at him.

John swallows dryly, thinks of the words now disappearing with the curling, charred paper in the hearth: _5\. John to come home._ He thinks, too, about the the small piece of paper folded ten times over, and stuffed into the depths of his billfold. 

Reaching into his back pocket, he fishes it out, begins to unfold it, stares down at the words written there, feeling childish, and ridiculous, and insanely hopeful all at once.He walks over and drops it into Sherlock’s lap.“Might have made one of my own.It was Ella’s suggestion.Thought her a bit mad, to be honest, but it was an exercise, and she made me bring it to session, share it.It’s just…” 

Sherlock is staring up at him, fingers fiddling with the edge of the paper in his lap.John sucks in a breath through his nose.“Yeah, I’ll just stop talking now.You can read it or not.I—I’m going to go make some tea.”

Silence reigns from the lounge as John puts the water onto boil, pulls down two mugs from the cupboard, spoons the tea into the pot.His list had been long, with the one item of real importance sandwiched in the middle, like he hoped it would keep Ella from seeing it, like he hoped it would somehow make it seem less desperate, less needy: _Move back to Baker Street_.

Ella had caught on immediately, of course.“You want to move back in with Sherlock?”She had said almost the moment he had handed her the list.He knows Sherlock will have seen it just as quickly.That is why the silence from the next room is so deafening.

When it has gone on long enough that it can no longer be ignored without the tea getting cold, John snatches up both mugs and returns to the lounge.Sherlock is exactly where he left him, staring down at the paper in his lap, a single finger smoothing back and forth, John knows, over that single item in the middle of the list. 

He’s smiling, smiling like a cat that’s got the cream, like a child on Christmas morning, and when he looks up and meets John’s eye, he’s smiling still, his eyes soft, and filled with something John can only describe as painful fondness.“If you wanted to come home you should have said, you could have said, anytime.”

“Didn’t seem so simple.Seemed presumptuous, I guess.”

“John, this has always been, will always be your home.”

John doesn’t know what to say, so he smiles—a crooked thing, that still seems unnatural, seeing as how out of practice he’s been the last few years.He sets Sherlock’s tea on the table beside his chair, and then walks over and settles into his own, sets his tea down, picks up the paper, feeling instantly more comfortable behind the shield of it’s pages.“Might take me awhile to sell the flat.And I should try and find work closer.”

“Of course.Take your time.But, you can come home whenever you like, John.You know that upstairs has been set up for you and Rosie for months.Whenever like, but maybe—maybe don’t take too long.”

John smiles behind the paper.“Yeah?Hm…Nice to be missed.”

“You have been.You are.”

John is a coward.He knows that.He can’t seem to bring himself to lower the paper and meet Sherlock’s eye, which given—well, everything, he really should do. But…

“Me too.I um—I’ll look into listing the flat this week, talk to Rebecca at work about transferring to a surgery closer to here.I’ll get things moving.”

“Good,” is all Sherlock says in response, before he gets to his feet, and tosses John’s list in the fire to join his own.“Good.A fresh start.”


	3. Day 3 - The Ghosts of Christmas Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 3**

**Prompt: The Ghosts of Christmas Past**

________________________________________________

 

**To: Sherlock**

 

                                                                                       Need your help.

 

_What’s wrong?_

 

                                                                                       I’m at the shops.Meant to be getting

                                                                                       Rosie something for Christmas, and it’s not

                                                                                       working out.

 

_What do you mean?_

 

                                                                                       Don’t know what to get her.

 

_Well what does she like?What’s she_

_interested in?And why do you think I_

_can help?_

 

                                                                                       That’s the thing.I don’t know what she likes.

                                                                                       I don’t know what she’sinterested in.I’ve been

                                                                                       a shit father, Sherlock.And…

 

                                                                                       I should know, shouldn’t I?

 

                                                                                       I should know that.

 

                                                                                      And you’re the genius, so just thought you might…

 

_Text me your location.I’ll be right there._

 

________________________________________________

 

The shops are a mad throng of holiday shoppers, but it only takes Sherlock a minute to find John, pale and still, at a small, metal table beside the concession stand.He has two cups of something warm in front of him.Tea for him, and likely hot cocoa for Sherlock.People stream around him, but he isn’t seeing any of them.

Sherlock pushes through the crowd, and slides into the chair across from him, cups his hands around the cup meant for him, and feels something in his chest let go as he see’s John’s shoulders drop in relief.

“Hey.”

Sherlock glances at the harried shoppers around them with a moue of mild distain.“I have no idea why you insist on the shops every year.You do know that you can buy most things online these days?”

John just shrugs.“I don’t know.Seems less—personal somehow.”

Sherlock takes a delicate sip of the hot cocoa.The temperature is just the cool side of right.John has been sitting here for awhile, then.He likely called Sherlock from this spot, after he’d ordered the drinks, after he’d hoped Sherlock would come.He’s drowning then.He’s drowning or he wouldn’t have called at all.

“She’s barely twenty-two months old.I’m not sure that’s a distinction she would make.”

He glances over at John’s hands trembling against his cup of tea, at the way his chest rises and falls fast—too fast, and something inside him aches, aches to gather him up.

He gets to his feet.“Come.”

John’s brow furrows as he looks up at him.“Where?”

Sherlock cocks a brow in response.John rolls his eyes, but then he’s binning their drinks and following in his wake back through the throng, and into the quiet of the backseat of a cab.

_________________________________________________

 

It feels strange coming back to the Watson flat.It’s been cleaned within an inch of it’s life, readied for the estate agent to assess and start to schedule showings in just a couple weeks.It looks like the set of a play, like it is populated by faux people. playing a part, the only true residents the local ghosts.

Sherlock shakes his head a little to clear the fog.“Take me to her room.Show me what she’s been playing with.Show me her favourite books.”

“We didn’t have to come here for that.You see her all the time when we come over.You see what she plays with.”

“I see what you pick out and bring for her to play with.Not the same thing.She does like to build.She’ll often seek things out for that purpose, when left to her own devices.It’s why I’ve had to put all the books and lab supplies up.She likes to stack.But, show me what she plays with here, in her natural environment, with the full range of her toys to choose from.”

“Okay.”John heads upstairs to the nursery, and Sherlock follows behind.

“Didn’t you have some special toy when you were a kid?”John’s gait is stiff, with the tiniest hint of a limp as he heads down the hall.“Like something really special.I remember when I was eight, my gran gave me this little medical kit in a painted tin box.Plastic medical instruments inside.It was brand new, for one, and we rarely got new things, and it was just—it was never the kind of thing that mum and dad would have gotten me. 

“Gran used to mind me and Harry after school for a few years, and she and I used to watch M.A.S.H. together on the telly.She’d tape them in the evenings, so I could watch them with her in the afternoons.So it was one of those gifts that was special, that had real meaning.Wish I still had it, actually, but I left it at home when I went to med school, and then—well, it got lost after that.”

John turns as they enter Rosie’s room.“You didn’t have something like that?”

Sherlock shrugs.“There was a bee.A stuffed toy.Mycroft gave it to me when I was just a little older than Rosie.He was nearly ten.I was obsessed with bees, apparently.I slept with it every night until I was—well, older than I’d like to admit.I suppose it was—the sentiment behind the thing, rather than the toy itself, though it did tie into one of my childish interests at the time.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitches.

“What?”

“Dunno.Just never figured you for a plush toy sort of bloke.”

“Don’t you dare tell a soul,”Sherlock admonishes with mock seriousness, and the hint of a smile he can’t repress.

John grins.“Don’t worry.Your secret’s safe with me.”

There is a moment of magnetic stillness between them—shared histories, memories, a fondness that seems more and more impossible to repress of late.It is almost painful in it’s tenderness.

Sherlock sucks in a quick breath, and claps his hands together.“Well, let’s take a look around and see what we see, shall we.”


	4. Day 4 - Mistletoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 4**

**Prompt: Mistletoe**

 

“Hoping to get lucky, are we?”

“Mmm?”Sherlock doesn’t even bother to glance up from the article on decomposition rates in arid climates he had cradled in his hand.John has been increasingly— _present_ of late, and though he is always welcome, more than welcome, it has been taking some getting used to.

“That,” John says, irritatingly vague.

“What?”

“That,” he repeats.“Look up, Idiot.”

Sherlock scowls and finally does as ordered.He scowls even more deeply at the spring of artificial mistletoe hanging in the doorway between kitchen and hall.“What is that?”

“Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, world’s only and greatest consulting detective, I believe that is a sprig of mistletoe.”John is grinning. 

“Obviously.Where did it come from?”

“Mrs. Hudson I suspect.”John takes a sip of tea from the mug in his hand. “Pity for you that the only two people in the flat are an eighty year old woman, and a burnt out army doctor.Might want to give _you-know-who_ a call.”

“Who, pray, is ‘you-know-who’?”

John sniffs, and takes another sip of tea while his free hand balls into a white-knuckled fist.“You know—her.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.“Are you referring to Irene Adler?”

A muscle in John’s jaw jumps.His mouth presses into a tight line, tongue darting out once to moisten his dry lips.He just shrugs.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, strung out into a long-suffering sigh, and makes a decision.“John, I’m gay.”

Time stops.The words hang between them in the quiet of the hall, thick and heavy.It’s the first time Sherlock has ever said the words out loud to anyone.He’s known it, of course, but in the past he had always managed to talk around it.It was, in many ways, a non-issue, or so he told himself.He had no interest in love, in relationships, in sex. 

But that has ceased to be true for some time, and John is moving back to Baker Street, and there is a kind of relief in saying it.If he’s completely honest, there’s a kind of delighted satisfaction in the effect the words have just had on John, as well.

He’s staring, lips slightly parted, mug in his hand slowly sliding in his grip until the tea edges frighteningly close to pouring over the rim.

“Your tea.”

“What?”

“You’re about to spill your tea.”

John looks down.“Oh.”Corrects the tilt of his mug.

“Quite.So no more talk of Irene and mistletoe in the same breath, if you don’t mind, or talk of her at all, for that matter.I find it—tedious.I have a kind of affinity for her, I suppose, but nothing more.”

“Yeah.Right.Okay…Sorry.”John nods, glances once up at the mistletoe hanging above Sherlock’s head, and then turns and walks away without another word.

Sherlock feels a sudden something squeeze tight in his chest, a rush of adrenaline racing through his veins, his stomach twist.“John…”

John stops at the door between kitchen and lounge, but he doesn’t turn around.“It’s fine.You’re worrying.Don’t.It’s fine.It’s—always been fine.I don’t mind.”

Some of the anxiety let’s go.“Ah…Well—good.Thank you.”

John just nods, and then goes into the lounge and settles into his chair with the day’s paper like it is any other day, like this monumental thing hasn’t just happened between them. 

But then, perhaps it isn’t all that monumental after all.It’s not that John hasn’t known.It’s only that John hasn’t wanted to let himself acknowledge it.Now he has to—for good or for ill.

Perhaps it was beneath him, Sherlock thinks.Perhaps he should have allowed John the comfort, the shelter of his continued, wilful ignorance.But if he’s honest, Sherlock is tired of games.He’s tired of secrets, and lies, and petty omissions. 

It’s on the table now.It is what it is.It will play out however it will play out, and it’s better.It’s better this way.


	5. Day 5 - The Nutcracker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 5**

**Prompt: The Nutcracker**

 

John is magnificent. He always is when he’s like this.Full military regalia: red coat, gold braid, trousers tight enough to almost be a second skin.He’s alert, on the defence. 

The sickly, blue half-light of the moonlit lounge glints off the blade of his sword, dances over the seething mass of vermin writhing in the shadows.Their leader delivers a powerful thrust, and then another.John parries easily, both times, as Sherlock watches from the wings, veins singing with adrenaline, with the danger, the thrill, the pure, unadulterated beauty of John’s movements.

_Mousey_

Ridiculous.Much more than a mere mouse.A king.A tyrant.A definite threat!

John gets in a thrust of his own, another, another, a slash, a definite hit!

_MouseyMousey_

_Shhh…_

Yes!John needs to focus.Nothing should distract him from his goal.His foe weakened, he sees his chance, and doles out a mortal blow, but not before being struck himself.

Sherlock moans at the same moment John gasps in pain.

“Hey…You okay?”

It takes a moment for him to get his bearings.

“MOUSEY!”

“Yeah, I see him Ro, but you’ve got to be quiet.You just woke up Sherlock.”John turns his attention back to him, eyes sympathetic.“Sorry.She’s kind of worked up.”

“It’s fine.”Sherlock let’s his eyes drift lazily from John, to Rosie seated on the floor surrounded by a pile of building bricks, and then up to the television set where the Royal Opera Ballet are dancing a rousing rendition of _The Nutcracker_.He arches a brow.“Are you watching ballet?”

“Rosie’s watching it.She’s really into it, too.”

“Mmm…”

John frowns.“Here, you feeling okay?You look flushed.”

“I’m fine.”

The truth is, he suddenly realises, he’s not fine.Instead he’s quite obviously displaying signs of arousal.John or someone was good enough to drape a blanket over him at some point, so it is possible John’s not even seen, but…

John’s eyes flit momentarily down the length of his body, and then quickly snap back to the television screen.His cheeks pink instantly.

_So much for that…_

“Thought I might order a takeaway for supper.”John is fixated on the dancers leaping across the stage.“You mind if we spend the night.It’s raining like mad out there, and they say it’s supposed to turn to sleet in an hour or so.”

“Of course I don’t mind.”Sherlock rolls over to face the back of the sofa, to will his body into submission. 

Inconvenient.Unacceptable.Utterly embarrassing.

“Thanks.You want your usual?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, I’m uh…I’m going to take Rosie down to Mrs. Hudson’s.She promised biscuits when we saw her earlier.I’ll grab supper when it gets here, and be back up then.”

“Fine.”

There are a few moments of screams and tense reprimands while John tries to wrestle Rosie away from the charms of ballet, and then Sherlock is left in blessed silence, the muted strains of Tchaikovsky from the television his only companion.

He thought it would be easy.He thought this wouldn’t be a problem.John was coming home.That was enough. John wanted them to be—whatever it is they’ve always been, plus one, plus a little something more.A family of a kind.It was enough. 

It is.

John is coming home in a few short weeks.He has to find a way to get a handle on all of— _this_.Another rush of blood throbs out an unwelcome reminder of just how far gone he is, how deep he’s sunk.

He won’t indulge himself.Cold turkey.It’s the only way. 

Cold shower, then.


	6. Day 6 - Christmas Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 6**

**Prompt: Christmas Cards**

 

John loves Christmas, or at least he wants to, tries to.Every year, somewhere deep down there is the hope that this, THIS will be the year that Christmas will have the magic everyone always talks about. 

But every year seems to go exactly like this.Everyone elseseems to have a delightful Christmas all but dumped in their laps (whether they want it or not), and he’s left fighting tooth-and-nail for even the smallest bit of Christmas cheer.

Case in point: Sherlock currently standing by the hearth, elegant black Christmas Cardwith blood-red, foil script in hand, grinning like a bloody loon and chuckling, having the audacity to actually chuckle at it’s contents.

John doesn’t have to spend long guessing who the card is from.There is a tiny red foil ‘W’ on the back.And no matter where Sherlock’s declared his interest may lie, there is no mistaking the smile on his face, or the sparkle in his eye.He hasn’t even noticed John’s arrival.

John clears his throat from the doorway to the lounge, and Sherlock’s head snaps up. 

John jerks his chin toward the card in Sherlock’s hand.“What’s that then?”He knows what it is.He knows what it bloody is, but he want’s to hear Sherlock say it.

“It’s a Christmas Card.”

“Can see that.Who from?”

“Irene Adler.”Stated just like that, like it isn’t galling at all, like it hasn’t just sucked all the oxygen out of the room, and slammed into John like a punch to the gut.

John clenches his jaw tight, and nods once.“Right.Thought you two weren’t…”

Sherlock arches a brow.“Weren’t…?”

“I don’t know.Whatever it is you are.Whatever it is that motivates her to send you Christmas cards that run the risk of revealing her whereabouts and threatening her personal safety.”

Sherlock’s brow knits into the tiniest wrinkle, and something about it makes John’s chest ache.He roughly pushes the observation aside.

“Are you still upset about this?”

“Of course I bloody am!” _And didn’t that come out much more strongly than he intended…_

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches.“Why?”

John opens his mouth to bite back a reply, and suddenly realises he has no idea.Why is he upset about this?Why can’t Sherlock receive Christmas cards from—other people, people who aren’t—him.

John swallows tightly.“Never mind.”

“Alright.”

“I’ve brought some stuff over from the other flat.I’m just going to…”He tilts his head toward the upper floor.”

“Yes, of course.I’ll put some tea on.”

________________________

 

John dumps the trash bags unceremoniously on the floor of his old bedroom and flops onto the bed.He looks around him.The room’s been given a good dusting since he was here last.Mrs. Hudson overly-excited about his impending move, no doubt.Ready for his arrival weeks in advance.

Mrs. Hudson!Of course.She’d been posting a mountain of Christmas cards when John had been over the other day.

________________________

 

“John.Getting yourself all settled in?”She looks positively overjoyed to see him, and he still can’t figure out why.Christ knows he’s not done right by her, and she can hardly be pleased with his treatment of Sherlock the last couple of years, either, but still, here she is, smiling, and reaching out to rub his arm affectionately.

“Hey.The other day when I was here, you were posting Christmas cards, and I was wondering if you had any extras.”

“Oh.For Sherlock?”She whispers conspiratorially.

John grins with fond exasperation.“Yeah.Been so busy this year, I kind of forgot.”

She motions him inside, and he follows her into the kitchen.She rifles through a small box on the table.“I saw this the other day, and thought of you.Thought you might be busy with the move, so I bought it on the off chance you might need it.Here you go.”

John stares down at the card.The envelope has already been filled out:

 

**To: Sherlock**

**From: John**

 

There’s a golden lab wearing a red santa hat and the words **Happy Howlidays** on the front. 

Mrs. Hudson giggles.“He’ll love it.”

“Yeah…Okay.This will do I guess.Thanks.”

________________________

 

He’s all the way back up to their flat by the time he opens the card to read the greeting inside:

 

**Many fluffy hugs and sloppy kisses.Your loyal companion.**

 

 _Oh for fu…_  
****

“What’s that?”Sherlock steps out into the hall from the kitchen.

John slaps the card against his chest and feels his cheeks go hot.“Uh…Nothing.It’s nothing.I just needed a card, so I asked Mrs. Hudson if she had any extra’s, but it’s not…”

“For me?”

John huffs.“What makes you think it’s for you?”

“You look nervous.”

“Why would I be nervous to give you a card?”

“I don’t know.Why would you be?”

John swallows dryly.Why indeed?“It’s Mrs. Hudson.You know how she is.”

Sherlock smiles, and John feels some of the tension in his chest let go.“Yes, I know.She’s over done it, I imagine.”

John chuckles.“A bit.Yeah.But still…”He pulls the card away from his chest, stares down at it for a moment, and then holds it out.“It’s kind of funny, I guess.”

Sherlock takes it, and immediately arches a brow at the picture on the front.John holds his breath, waiting for the moment he opens it up, and things get—weird.

But when he does, he just smiles.“Ah yes.Loyalty.It is your defining trait, you know.”He hands the card back.“Sign it?”

“Mmm?”

“Will you sign it?I interrupted you.You’ve not had the chance to sign it.”

“Oh.Yeah.Yeah, just give me a minute.”

John retreats to the desk in the lounge.He can see Sherlock in his periphery, in the kitchen, making his tea exactly as he likes it.He takes up a pen.

 

**Here’s to many more decades of happy adventures and merry christmases.**

**Your loyal companion,**  
****

**John**

 

There.It’s missing—something.But he’s too tired to puzzle it out, and Sherlock is coming back in from the kitchen, tea in hand.He sets the steaming mug down in front of John, and John holds out the card.

“Here.”

Sherlock takes it.Reads it.Smiles, and without a word turns and walks toward the hearth, where he takes the black card and tucks it behind the skull, before placing John’s ridiculous one in the place of honour, dead centre.

“There.Perfect.”

When he turns around again, it is with one of those rare, intimate smiles, that John has never seen him focus on anyone but him.It makes his blood sing in his veins, and his skin prickle with anticipation for something he’s never quite been able to pin down.

“Merry Christmas, John.”

John smiles back, heart warm, and settling into an old, familiar rhythm he’d almost forgotten.“Merry Christmas."


	7. Day 7 - Candles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 7**

**Prompt: Candles**

“It’s out down the whole street.”

Sherlock stretches like a cat, and digs his bare toes in the arm of the leather sofa in irritation.  “We’re in the centre of London, how can the power be out down the whole street?!”

“Well, it is snowing pretty hard, and that wind…  Guess Ro and I are spending the night again.  I’m just going to let her sleep.  She’s needs to get caught up anyway.  Right little night owl she’s getting to be.  Takes after you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.  There’s ample evidence that one’s internal clock is genetically set.  Technically, there’s no way she can ‘take after’ me.”

“Oh.  Right.  Yeah.  Well, anyway…”  John turns around from the window.  “Guess we should hunt down some candles.”

Sherlock scowls at the red bar on his phone.  “There’s a box over the stove.”

He listens as John roots through the box.  There’s a moment’s pause, as it no doubt sinks in just what all these half-burnt candles were probably last used for.  John sniffs, clears his throat, and then apparently thinks better of bringing it up.  He reappears in the lounge, and sets up a few of the tapers on the desk.

“It’s probably going to get cold in here.”

“Likely.”

“You want me to make some tea?  I’ll have to boil it on the stove, but could do.”

“It’s fine.  My mobile’s about to die.  Does yours have charge?”

“Some, but I should probably save it.  My laptop’s near dead though.”

“Mine too.”  Sherlock sighs.  “What on earth am I supposed to do?  This is going to be the longest night of my life.  I’m likely to die of boredom before morning!”

John flops into the chair on the far side of the desk, and chuckles.  “Think you’ll survive.”

“Doubtful.”

John picks up the sudoku cube on the desk, turns it slowly in his hand, sets it back down.  “We could—I don’t know…  Chat.”

“Good Lord.”  Sherlock stretches again, rolls over and curls tight into himself, staring at the back of the sofa.   _They could.  They could talk.  There are things that need saying.  But how on earth does one say them?_

“What?  Nothing—weird.  Just a little chat between friends.  You know—man-to-man.”

Sherlock sighs loudly.

John sniffs.  “What?  You’ve never talked to a friend about—things?”

“I don’t have friends.”

“Right.”  He hears the creak of the chair as John leans back in it.  “Right.  But you’ve got me.  Thought I was your friend.”

The silence that follows is thick, almost palpable.  Sherlock knows he needs to say something, anything.  “Yes.”

“Well, then…”

“Well then, what?”  He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the sofa in a frustrated huff.  He wants this.  He knows that.  He’s wanted this for ages, but John has always seemed to avoid these sorts of intimate conversations like the plague, and Sherlock has been only too happy to let him.  But now…

“Come sit over here.  It’s warmer.”

Sherlock goes because John seems different, all of a sudden: soft around the edges, open.  Perhaps it is the candle light, the safe, velvety half-dark of the room, the world outside distant and muffled beneath a swirl of unprecedented, early-winter snow.

He settles into the chair across the desk, and leans back, arms crossed over his chest.  “Fine.  Let’s— _chat._ ”

John’s mouth twitches into a grin that disappears just as quickly as it had appeared.  “First times,” he offers, very seriously.

“What?”

“Tell me about your first time.”

“My first time for what?”

John huffs out a small laugh of disbelief.

_Oh…_

“Your first kiss.  Your first—I don’t know--sexual encounter.”

Sherlock tightens his arms across his chest.  “Why are we talking about this?”

“It’s what friends do.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.  Sometimes…  Listen, I’m moving back here soon, and I’m supposedly your best friend, and yet there’s so much I don’t know about you.  I’m just—curious, I guess.”

“I fail to see what your moving back home has to do with my—sexual history.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There’s nothing to talk about because you don’t want to talk about it, or there’s nothing to talk about because you’ve never…  Wait.  You said…  You said you were gay.”

_So John has been thinking about it…_

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Well—I just thought that you must have had some experience. I mean, how would you know otherwise?”

“I know.”

“How?”

“I just do.  For that matter, how do you know?”

“Know what?”

“What you like.  Who you like.”

“Well, I think that’s fairly obvious.”

“Indeed.”

“What’s that tone.”

“What tone. I don’t have a tone.”

“Yeah you do.  It’s the ‘ _I know something about you that you don’t know_ ’ tone.  Kind of hate that tone, to be honest.”

“It’s not a tone.  Besides, I’m sure you are more than aware of what and who you are drawn to whether you’ve had the opportunity to explore it or not.”

John leans forward a little, like he’s trying to read Sherlock’s expression in the dimness of the room.  After a moment he flops back against the chair again.  “Yeah…  Yeah, maybe.”

“I know because I know.  Dearth of experience, notwithstanding.”

John perks up again.  “Oh.  So you haven’t…?”

“No.”

“Not even a kiss?”

“I thought we were talking about sex.”

“Yes.  But a kiss?”

“Yes, I’ve kissed.”

John’s mouth presses into a tight line.  “Yeah?  Who?”

“No need for that.  I was twelve, John.  So was he.  He punched me in the face.”

John frowns.  “Jesus.”

“Yes.”

There is a moment of silence.  The wind outside buffets the window panes.  The lights flicker momentarily and then go out again.  John looks almost relieved.

“How was it?  The punching aside, I mean.  How was it?”

“It was nice.”

“So—you liked it?”

“Yes.  It was nice, until he changed his mind.”

“And you never—I don’t know—wanted to try it again?”

“The opportunity didn’t present itself, and it didn’t interest me enough to just experiment.”

“Oh.”  

“And you?”

“Mmm?”

“What about your first kiss?”

“What?  With a bloke?”

Sherlock blinks.  “Has there been one?”

John grins.  “Maybe.”

Sherlock scoots forward in his chair.  “What do you mean, maybe?”

“I mean I don’t really talk about it, but if you want to hear about it…”

“You’d tell me?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Why me?”

The corner of John’s mouth twitches upwards, and he shrugs.  “You’re my best friend.  Who else would I tell?”

“Your wife?”

“Yeah.  She knew.  ‘Course I told her.”

“Some men wouldn’t have.  Many men wouldn’t have.”

“It was just a kiss.”

“I know.”

John swallows dryly, and sits back.  He picks at a hangnail in the corner of his thumb, but his body language is loose, open.  “It was in uni.  Second year.  You ever played spin the bottle?”

“No.”

“It’s a party game.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Oh.  Well, we were doing this version of it called 5 minutes in the closet.  I spun and it landed on this boy a year before me.  He looked like he wanted to throw up, when the bottle landed on him, so I thought…  Well, I thought he just had a problem with it, you know, me being a bloke.  

“Anyway, we took our five minutes in the closet, and he was trembling by the time we got in there.  I felt badly for him.  So, I just said, ’It’s fine.  We don’t have to do anything.  No one will know.’

“But I guess he did want it, because suddenly he was kissing me.  He was shaking the whole time, but he was kissing me, and I felt bad, so I kissed him back.”

“You kissed him out of pity?”

“No.  No.  It was…  I liked it, I guess.  It was a good kiss.  It wasn’t pity.  Sympathy, maybe.”

“Empathy?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, maybe empathy.”  Softly.

Sherlock looks up from his lap.  John is staring at him.  “And did you ever…?  Was there a second time?”

“No.  No.  But I’ve thought about it.  I feel things for…  I’ve made attachments with a small number of other men.  Attachments that were, are, maybe something more, strictly speaking, than platonic.”

“Are?”

“What?”

“You said ‘were’ and corrected yourself to ‘are’.”

John swallows tightly.  “Did I?”

“Yes.”

An ambulance races by on the street below, and the lights flicker, and then blink on with a slight hum.  John looks up at the ceiling like it’s a miracle.  “Hey!”

“Finally.”

John  _is_  relieved this time.  He leans forward, slapping his hands against his knees and stands up.  “I am going to make tea.  Might be nice to have a hot pot if it goes out again.”

“Yes.”

John heads for the kitchen, and Sherlock watches him go, curses and is grateful for London’s inadequate and unpredictable power grid, all at once.

John is humming as he pulls the tea down from the cabinets, fills the kettle, sets it to boil.  He seems no worse for wear.  Sherlock had always thought that such a conversation between them would be monumental, possibly catastrophic, but here they both are, safe, warm, comfortable.  Still friends.  No harm done.

It feels like a start.  The start of something new.


	8. Day 8 - A Murder for Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 8**

**Prompt: A Murder for Christmas**

 

The holidays are usually teeming with murder, but not this year.Perhaps people are tired of the general feeling of global unrest and need a break, or perhaps they’re just getting lazy, but whatever it is, it means no work, and consequently, a very grumpy Sherlock Holmes.

There has been the usual, of course.The moping, the grumping, the pacing, the short temper and biting words (which often are miraculously followed by a penitent look and mumbled apology, these days).But now Sherlock is standing at the window, in a ratty pair of pyjamas, hair an unwashed riot, staring listlessly down the street, and John knows what that means, what he’s craving.Enough-is-enough.

“You up for going out tonight?”

“Mmm…?”

“Out.Do you feel like gong out tonight?I’ve got something planned, and it’s kind of for you, so…Not much use me going on my own.”

Sherlock turns away from the fogged glass.“For me?”

“Yeah.You’ve been climbing the walls the last few days.Thought I might offer up a distraction.”

“What sort of distraction?”

Sherlock’s trying to seem cool and uninterested, but he’s subconsciously and almost imperceptibly started bouncing on the balls of his feet.

John grins.“You’ll just have to wait and see.You should dress smart, though.Though, I suppose you always dress smart, current kit excluded, of course.”

“Will we be eating?”

“Mm-hm.”

“It’s—a date?”

“It’s a distraction,” John clarifies.

“Ah…”

____________________________________________________

 

Or maybe it is a date—of a kind, John thinks as he straightens his tie, tries in vain to get his freshly cut hair to sit properly over his forehead.Sherlock’s likely to come out of his room looking suave as Bond himself, and yet here John is putting in every ounce of effort, and for what…?

“Oh, should I have worn a tie?”

John glances up at Sherlock in the mirror over the hearth.“You never wear a tie.”

“Yes, but is there a theme?”

John rolls his eyes heavenward.“Have you already guessed where I’m taking you?”

“Of course.You’ve decided to get me a murder for Christmas.We’re attending one of those ridiculous Murder Mystery dinner things, I assume.But really, I do need to know if there’s a theme.It’s not fancy dress is it?Is it a 90s theme?”He’s eyeing John’s suit like maybe…

“No, it’s not bloody fancy dress.There is a theme, but what you’re wearing is—fine.It’s—perfect actually.”John’s mouth goes a little dry.Sherlock’s wearing the shirt he loves, the one just a few shades darker than his eyes, and somehow the git probably knows that, and has worn it for just that reason.

_‘It’s—a date?’_

“You look nice,”John offers, and is taken aback to see what looks suspiciously like a blush come to Sherlock’s cheeks.

“So do you.”Stilted and audibly, visibly nervous.

_Jesus.It is a date._

John clears his throat.“Well, we should get going.We’re just up the road at the Radisson Blu, but traffic’s bad.”

“Of course.I’ll hail us a cab.”

____________________________________________________

 

Predictably, Sherlock ends up verbally eviscerating the bloke in the role of Bond, and Her Majesty’s Secret Service (aka the rather burly event security) kicks them both out on their arses only an hour in, after Sherlock loudly and single-handedly solves the murder and declares it ‘inane and wildly unrealistic’ in the same breath.

Now they’re at some late night kebab place, laughing over shared shawarma and a couple of cans of lukewarm Coke.And there is a smile on Sherlock’s face, and joy in John’s heart, and though the whole thing’s gone horribly sideways, John doesn’t think he’d want it any other way.

“Bond’s face when you told him he was a bloody idiot who should be put out to pasture sooner rather than not!” John grins and Sherlock chuckles.

“Yes well, MI-6 never would have hired someone so unfit.And he relied far to heavily on his gadgets.Trying to make up for his other inadequacies I imagine.”Sherlock winks.

_Winks?_

_Winks._

John feels his cheeks heat, and he giggles like a lovesick school girl before taking a swig of fizzy drink to disguise the sudden rush of nerves.

“It was a good idea, John.It’s not your fault they were idiots, and—I had fun.”

John swallows and sets the can down.“Yeah?Well good, that’s good.Would have got you a proper murder if I could.But I’m not sure that even your brother could have managed that.”

“Oh, don’t underestimate him.He’s started wars for far less reason.”

A quiet settles between them.It’s late and the shop will be closing soon.There’s no one but them and the owner, who’s back in the kitchen cleaning up.

“Bit like old times, this.”

Sherlock nods.“Mmm, a bit.”

“It’s nice.”

“Yes, it is.”

John swallows tightly.“I’ve missed this.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve missed you—us.”He clarifies.He can feel the adrenaline flood his veins, the way his whole body tenses into alertness, the way he becomes hyper-aware of every small sound in the shop, of the odd person passing by on the sidewalk outside.

He sees Sherlock notice it, too.“So have I,” he replies, low, intimate, careful.

The moment hangs between them, crackling and alive with potential, potential for something John never dared dream, never dared allow himself before now.And why now?He has no idea, but he wants it now—more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

“You ready to head back?”

“Yes.Let’s walk.It’s not far.”

And John’s heart sings at that.That Sherlock feels something similar, that he wants to stretch the evening out as far as it will take them, maintain the energy of whatever it is passing between them.

“Sure.”

They bin their meagre leftovers and head out on the cool, nighttime streets.John sucks in the crisp air, relishing in the way it clears his head.“So, was this a date after all, do you think?”He feels Sherlock look down at him, but can’t bring himself to return his gaze. 

“I thought, technically speaking, we were defining it as a distraction.”

“Could be both…”

“True.”

“I mean, here we are, two friends out having a good time together.”

“Yes.”

“Could be a date.”

“Quite possibly.”

John’s mouth twitches despite his nerves, and he does manage a quick glance upward.Sherlock is smiling too.

John nods, looks back down at the pavement and starts to walk.“Good to know.I’ll keep that in mind for the next time.”

“Next time?”

He stops and turns around when he realises Sherlock’s not following.“What?You don’t want a second chance to mortify Her Majesty’s Secret Service.Or we could do the mob themed one next.I actually think they have one starring you.That would be a bit of a lark.”

“It would.”Sherlock starts to walk again, and John turns and falls in beside him.

“Just maybe wait until dinners finished next time.That prime rib looked delicious.”

 


	9. Day 9 - Naughty or Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 9**

**Prompt: Naughty or Nice**

 

“Christ, what is that smell?!”

The shops had been a madhouse, the girl had over packed his bags, which resulted in two of them bursting on the way home, and now John is juggling cans, and washing up liquid, and a carton of milk, while still lugging eight other bags up the stairs while his leg aches, and his shoulder aches, and he has the start of what he expects will be an epic headache, and to top it all off the flat smells like…

“It’s smells like a bloody body farm in here!”

“Mmm…”Sherlock is hunched over the microscope that always seems to migrate back to the kitchen table two minutes after John clears it. 

Rosie looks up from the far side of the table, where she is strapped into her booster seat, moulding and squishing red play dough between her pudgy fingers on the small spot Sherlock has cleared for her.“Liver!”

John rolls his eyes.“You think?Could be.” 

He dumps everything in his arms onto Sherlock’s side of the table with a loud thump, and Sherlock’s head shoots up in irritation.“John, I’m in the middle of something.”

“Yeah, in the middle of turning this flat into a toxic waste dump by the smell of it.What is that?!I told you we have to careful about air quality with a toddler in the house.”

Sherlock frowns and sniffs the air delicately.His eyes widen.His mouth forms into a small, perfectly formed O.

“What is it?”John demands, voice tight.He can see Rosie intently watching them now that their tones of voice have shifted from casual to tense.He tries to moderate himself.“Sherlock, just tell me what it is, where it is, so I can get rid of the bloody thing.It’s not literally bloody, is it?”

Sherlock’s eyes drift to the cupboard over the sink, and John gives him a look before striding over and sliding back the door, perusing the shelves until his eyes light on the culprit—a jar of slimy, yellowed, human eyeballs, tucked into the far corner at the bottom.

A fresh surge of pain throbs against his skull.“How long have these been in here?”

“I might have forgotten them there after I came home from the lab on Wednesday.”

“They’ve been sitting there since Wednesday?!”There is some satisfaction in the contrite look on Sherlock’s face the pink to his cheeks the way he stares up at the ceiling like a guilty schoolboy, not daring to look John in the eye.

“Wednesday is when you made the fuss about the Christmas card.I’d just gotten back.I set them there while I was making tea and opening my mail.I forgot.”

“Oh, so this is my fault!”

Sherlock says nothing.No doubt because he knows it’s dangerous to push things when John gets like this.Rosie’s stopped playing.Her hands are frozen, buried in a mound of dough.Her eyes move back and forth between them.John hates himself so much he feels ill. 

He takes a deep breath.“Listen, just dispose of them—properly, okay.And put the shopping up.I need to…I have a raging headache.I need to go take something for it.”

“Yes.Alright.”

John pops a paracetamol and uses the toilet.He washes his hands, and then shuts the water off and listens.Sherlock is putting the food away, talking soft and low to Rosie as he does.Rosie is back to playing, talking away to herself, pounding the dough against the table top. 

He grips the cool, porcelain edge of the sink and stares at himself in the mirror.He looks grey, old.He looks more and more like his dad every year.He wonders why or how he ever thought this might work, him back here with Sherlock.It’s a disaster waiting to happen, and though he’s been putting more effort in both at home and on the therapist’s couch, he’s never going to be…

John jumps at the small tap on the door.“John?”

“I’ll be out in minute.”

“I brought you some tea.”

John sighs.When he opens the door, Sherlock is standing there, steaming mug in hand.“I’ve triple bagged them, and put them at the back of the crisper.I’ll take them to Molly to dispose of on Monday.” 

He holds out the mug, and John takes it.“Yeah?Well, good.”

“I’m sorry.We did talk about it.I’d agreed to keep things clean.It isn’t good for Rosie.You’re quite right.”

John wraps his hands around the warm stonewear, and stares down at the floor.“Don’t.Don’t do that okay.”

“Don’t apologise?”

“Don’t brush off how I was just now.Don’t pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“You have a headache.”

“Don’t, Sherlock.”

A silence descends between them.Rosie is humming to herself in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry.I’m sorry I lost my patience and talked to you like that in front of Ro.I’m sorry…Christ, I’m just sorry—for everything.”When he looks up he knows that Sherlock can see the paleness to his cheeks, the way his eyes have filled.

Sherlock’s expression softens.“I know.I know, and I—appreciate that.I accept your apology.”

John swallows tightly. 

“John…”

He looks up.“Yeah.”

“You should get your blood pressure checked.Please.”

“Yeah?Yeah.I should, I know.You’re right.I will.I promise.”

“Thank you.”Sherlock takes a deep breath.“I didn’t think you would want to cook, and I assumed you were staying for supper.I’ve ordered Thai.I got the steamed vegetables and rice for Rosie.A chicken curry for you.”

John frowns.“That’s not my usual.”

“You like curry.”

“This is because of my blood pressure, isn’t it.”

The guilty look is back.

John smiles.“You really care that much?”

“Of course I do.”Sherlock smiles softly in return.For a brief, breathless moment, John thinks he might come closer, might pull him into his arms like he did just a little over a year ago when John was still angry, and broken, and quick to blame anyone but himself for his own failings.But, then he takes a deep breath and turns back towards the kitchen.“It will be here in fifteen.You’d best come and see what Rosie's made for you.We’ve been learning about anatomy.”

John remembers to breathe.He rolls his eyes heavenward.“Good lord.Do I want to see?”

“Oh you definitely want to see,” Sherlock calls back from the kitchen.“It was internal organs today.”


	10. Day 10 - Christmas Food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 10**

**Prompt: Christmas Food**

 

“Baking is chemistry, isn’t it?Thought you’d be wild over the concept.”  
****

Sherlock refuses to respond.He’d had plans today, plans that involved a nice fresh corpse at Barts, a nice fresh corpse with a suspicious lack of decomposition given that it had been found in the river having seemingly been dead for some time.

Instead it’s iced biscuits for Rosie’s playgroup bake exchange.Horrid idea.

Sherlock suspects John is doing this on purpose, laying it all on as thick as possible to see if he really means it when he says he is alright with them coming home, with sharing a flat with an almost two year-old and, as John has taken to calling himself lately, ‘a doddering old dad’.Lovely alliteration, ridiculous sentiment.

“You could have bought something at the bakery on the corner.Excellent confections.No one would have been the wiser.So just why are we doing this?”

John shrugs as he reappears at Sherlock’s side, tying an apron behind his back.“Dunno.Thought it might be fun.”

“I see.”

“Here.”John hands him an apron, too, which Sherlock dutifully puts on with a long-suffering sigh and roll of his eyes.

John huffs out a laugh.“It’s a simple biscuit.It won’t take long to make.The fun part comes once they’re cool.That’s when we get to decorate them.”

“Oh.Goody.”

The smile on John’s face fades a little.“Listen, if you really don’t want to do this, no obligation.Rosie and I can handle this on our own.”

Rosie chooses that moment to pound her fists on the other side of the table and then reach out towards them.“Biscuits!”

“Yes, your father is very keen on biscuits—apparently.” 

John’s tearing into bags of sugar, and tossing hunks of butter into the bowl in front of him with a great deal more force than necessary.It means something to him, Sherlock suddenly realises.The biscuits, or perhaps the sentiment and tradition surrounding the making of the biscuits, are important to him.Sherlock feels a twinge of guilt.

“We best help him, I imagine.”Rosie pats her hands on the bit of play dough John had given her to play with until the real dough is ready.

Sherlock reaches over, takes up the bag of flour John has just torn open with a scowl, and leans over to read the recipe.Four cups.He sighs again.Fine.He can do this.John was right, it is a simple recipe and the baking times are not long.He may have a chance to make it to Barts after all, if they don’t dawdle.

The first cupful goes into the small bowl in front of him without mishap, but on the second pass the bag of flour somehow slips from his grasp and lands with a thud and a puff on the table in front of him.

There is a moment of silence, a thick white fog that lifts in slow motion toward the ceiling and then settles softly around him, over him and everything in close orbit.He blinks as his brain registers the details of the situation. 

That is when John starts to laugh.

It’s a clipped bark at first, but then he laughs again, a giggle, the sort of laugh Sherlock hasn’t heard from him in years.He’s doubled over with it, pushing the boundaries of hysterical really, but, it’s a beautiful thing and Sherlock thinks that his own, personal mortification is more than worth it given the circumstances.

“SNOW!”Rosie offers, and John laughs harder, until there are tears running down his cheeks, until he can hardly catch his breath.

Sherlock has to fight back a chuckle of his own.Something tight and sour lets go in his chest, something he hadn’t even realised was there.It’s relief, he realises, relief to see John so unrestrained, so filled with momentary joy and amusement, and to know that he is a part of that, that something he’s done, no matter how inadvertent, has brought John a rare moment’s levity.

He wants to grin.He pouts instead.After all, there should be at least some tit-for-tat.When John finally comes up for air, he catches sight of the expression, and tries rather unsuccessfully to sober.

“Oh Christ, look at you.I’m sorry.Come here.”

John takes a step forward and brushes his hands through Sherlock’s hair, dusts the flour from his shoulders cups both hands around his face and smoothes the flour from his cheeks, before pulling back and sliding a single finger down the bridge of Sherlock’s nose and tapping the tip with a soft smile.“There.Better?”

Sherlock’s forgotten to breathe at some point.He sucks in a great breath, nods.“You should have gone to Sainsbury’s,” all his brain will offer up.

John grins.“Probably.But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of seeing this.”

Sherlock does allow himself a smile, at that.He can’t help it.His skin still hums and sparks where John touched him.

John smiles back, before reaching down and switching the bowls in front of them.“Here you cream this butter and sugar together.Best to let me handle the flour.”


	11. Day 11 - Party at the Yard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 11**

**Prompt: Party at The Yard**

 

The room on the fourth floor is fairly teeming with humanity, some of them visibly tipsy already, detectives, officers, CSI, admin, all gathered together on one floor with only one thing in mind—letting off a little end-of-year steam.Setting aside the usual professionalism, and letting loose.

It’s precisely the sort of affair Sherlock hates.

John leans into him a little as they deposit their coats at the makeshift coat check.“You okay?”

Sherlock scowls down at him.“Of course I’m alright.Why wouldn’t I be?”He’s perfectly kitted out, not a curl out of place, suit impeccable, expression carefully schooled, falling somewhere between indifferent neutrality and cool disdain. 

Right.Walls up, fortress already well guarded.This is ‘The Great Sherlock Holmes’, not Sherlock.John shrugs it off.It’s understandable.This is The Met’s annual Christmas party.This is Sherlock wholly out of his element.

They push through the officers milling about in the foyer, and then open the doors into the party proper.It’s still tasteful at this point, soft Christmas music floating from the PA system, the usual banks of fluorescent bulbs shut off, and mood lighting installed here and there instead.There is an open bar along the back wall, and a long buffet table a short distance from it. 

John stops when he realises Sherlock is no longer behind him.It only takes a few seconds to spot him mere steps away, tucked into a dim corner between a desk pushed against the wall and an oversized potted plant.John sighs as he sees him pull out his phone and instantly and effectively shut out the world around him.

Walking over, he flops back against the wall beside him.“You want something to drink?”

No response.Sherlock’s fingers fly over the keyboard.John thinks he catches a glimpse of Twitter.

“Sherlock.”

“Mm?”

“Do you want a drink?”

“Hm.”

“Yeah, okay.I’m getting you a drink.”

“ _I bloody well need a drink…_ ” he mutters to himself as he launches himself back into the crowd and makes his way toward the bar.It’s been years since he’s been to one of these things, and he’s not solving as many cases with Sherlock as he once did (fatherhood sadly does not permit), so he feels out of touch and out of place.He hardly recognises any of the faces milling about him.

Just then a member of the catering staff presses past him with a tray of champagne.

“Hey, can I…?”She stops, and he takes two glasses from the tray, before retreating quickly back to Sherlock’s quiet corner.

“Here.”

Sherlock glances up.“What’s this.”

“Champagne.I told you I was getting you a drink.”

“Oh.Yes.Thank you.”

He takes the glass carefully from John’s hand and ventures a tentative sip, before wrinkling his nose in distaste.“Awful.”

“Probably, but drink it anyway.It will take the edge off.”

“What edge?”

“The edge of being at this tedious do.”

“You were the one who insisted.I’m only here to please you.”

“Thought you said it was to shut me up.”

“Same thing.”

John laughs in spite of himself.It’s not so bad here in the spot Sherlock’s eked out.The charms of sequestering one’s self are swiftly becoming apparent.He feels a little of the tension loose as Sherlock chuckles along with him.

John glances up, feeling a little warm from the glass of champagne he’s just mindlessly consumed in about ten seconds flat.Sherlock is staring down at him with a look in his eye John can’t quite seem to interpret.It’s relaxed though, soft around the edges, like all his anxiety of a few minutes ago has simply disappeared.

There’s a little piece of lint from his coat, stuck to the lapel of his jacket.John reaches out and brushes it away without thinking.When he looks back up Sherlock’s cheeks look a little pinker than they were before—or maybe it’s just the mood lighting playing tricks on his eyes.

“Would you like another glass of champagne?”

John arcs a brow.“You offering to get me one.”

“Yes.”

“Well…ta.Grab me some nibbles when you’re over there too?”

“Alright.”

Sherlock pockets his phone and sets off through the crowd.It parts before him like the Red Sea, and he leaves a trail of whispering partygoers in his wake.John frowns.

“John.Nice to see you.”

He turns at the unexpected voice behind him.“Greg.Thought maybe you’d skipped out.You know, I don’t think I know a single person here.”

“Yeah, there’s more and more new faces every year.I’m starting to feel like the old man around here.it’s been awhile since we’ve seen you about.You and Sherlock back together, then.”

John lifts his champagne glass to his lips, only to remember it’s already empty.He sniffs and lowers it again.“What?”

“The cases,” Greg clarifies.

“Oh.Yeah.Sort of.When time permits.I’m, uh…Well, I’m moving back in actually.Once I get the flat in Acton sorted, get set up at a surgery closer to Baker Street.”

Greg nods, takes a sip of wine, and stares out over the masses, and John follows his gaze to where Sherlock is leaning over the bar ordering something decidedly not champagne.It looks like a beer.John feels a rush of gratitude so strong, he could kiss him.

“Listen,” Greg takes another sip from his glass.“This is probably not my place to say, and you can feel free to tell me to sod off, but…With you moving back in, does that mean that you and Sherlock…?”

John shakes his head a little, waiting for the punchline.

“Are you two— _together_?”

It’s a shock coming from Greg.He’s always kept the topic at a respectful distance, never assumed, presumed, like 99.9% of the rest of the world.John feels ambushed, instantly off kilter.“This agai…Listen, for the last time, Sherlock and I aren’t a couple.I. Am. Not. Gay.”

Greg lifts a hand in surrender.“Right.Not my place, I get it.Just—if you’re moving back in, do me a favour—make sure _he_ knows that.”

John’s stomach sours, and he can feel a headache coming on.Too much bloody, cheap champagne. 

Greg stays where he is, but doesn’t offer up any more unsolicited advice.He simply sips his wine and watches his colleagues and charges as they slowly descend into greater and greater levels of drunkenness.The lights dim, the music changes, people start to wander out onto a clear spot on the floor to dance.

John’s eyes wander back to the bar.A young, fit bloke is sidling up next to Sherlock, apparently trying to Initiate a conversation.John bites down a smile, anticipating the the cold brush off that is inevitably coming.But, to his surprise, Sherlock inclines his head a little to better hear what the man has said, and then actually smiles, and nods, and even laughs a little in response.John’s stomach churns.

“Who is that?”

“Hmm?”

“Over there, talking to Sherlock.Who is that?”

“Oh that’s the new reception manager, Teddy.”

_Teddy!?What kind of ridiculous…?_

John can feel Greg’s eyes on him, as he pushes away from the wall, and strides through the increasingly raucous crowd.Sherlock is handing _Teddy_ his phone _,_ leaning down to say something, as the man types in his—his damned phone number, probably.

Sherlock looks up in surprise when John appears at his side, and slides a hand into the crook of his back.“I’m not feeling well.Let’s get out of here.”

“You’re ill?”

“Dunno, just—let’s go.”

“Alright.”Sherlock turns back to Teddy.“It was nice meeting you.I’ll look into it.Text me if anything new comes to light.”

“Yeah.Definitely.Thanks.”He turns to John and extends a hand.“Hi.I’m Teddy.”

John just stares down at his hand.All he can think of is getting out, getting away, before…“Yeah, I know.”

The man frowns.“Sorry. Have we met?”

“No.I was just talking to Lestrade, he mentioned…You know what.Nice to meet you, but we really need to go.”

He turns and walks away.Sherlock falls instantly in step beside him, and it’s only then that John realises he still has his hand resting possessively in the small of Sherlock’s back.He lets it drop.

“Are you okay?”Sherlock is already fishing around in his pocket for his phone.

“Yeah. Fine.This was just—a bad idea.I want to go home.”

“Aright.”Sherlock stares down at him for a minute, but when John just keeps pushing through the throng, goes back to whatever the hell it is he is doing on his phone. 

_Probably texting bloody Teddy._

Greg is still where John left him.He nods as they walk by, and then mouths something John isn’t quite able to catch but which looks an awful lot like, ‘Tell Him!’.

John feels his stomach churn.Shit.“Loo.”

“What?”

“Gotta find the loo.Be right back.”

He barely makes it before he loses the entire contents of his stomach.His head is throbbing, and his heart racing, and he has to bite back a pathetic sob of relief when he hears the door to the loo swing open, and Sherlock’s familiar voice, echo off the tile. 

“John.I have our coats.Let’s go home.”

“Yeah.Just—give me a minute to wash up.I’ll be right there.”

Sherlock’s already standing outside in front of a cab when he finally gets out.The air is brisk.It smells like snow, and it clears his head a little.Sherlock holds the door open for him, closes it, and then walks around and gets in on the other side.

“221b Baker Street.Avoid Trafalgar Square.”

John presses his forehead against the cool glass, and lets his eyes slide shut.Everything hurts: his head, his shoulder, his leg—his heart.His hands are trembling, and he feels one of Sherlock’s slide up beside his on the seat between them, pinky pressing against pinky.

“You’re not alright.What happened?”

John feels the corners of his eyes bite, and he curses silently.He’s not going to be reduced to this.He is not going to cry in the backseat of a cab for absolutely no reason at all.“It’s nothing, Sherlock.Just leave it.”

“You were talking to Greg.”

“Leave it.”

Sherlock wisely falls silent.The cabbie does avoid Trafalgar square, which John is very grateful for given the building intensity of his headache, but there’s a collision on the alternate route, and they end up idling for what seems like hours.Sherlock sighs in frustration.

“I’m sorry.We should have taken Trafalgar after all.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

He feels Sherlock turn to look at him.“How are you feeling?”

“Tired…”

“We’ll be home soon.”

The cabbie honks three times and lets out a string of profanity in Pashto.John remembers how to breathe.

“You know I care about you, right?”

Sherlock swallows.“Of course.I’m your best friend.”

“Yeah.Right.You are.But you know I’d do anything for you, yeah?You know that me coming home this time—that’s for good?”

“Is it?”

John forces his eyes open.“Of course it is.”

“Until…”

“Until nothing.This is it.I’m not going to uproot Rosie.I’m not…Jesus, I’m not getting any younger, and I’m not up for all that anymore.I just want something solid, something—real.”

Sherlock is staring at him.There is a wrinkle of confusion above his nose.“I’m not exactly solid.You know that.”

“You’re here.You’ve always been here.”John sucks in a quavering breath.“Those two years you were away, notwithstanding…”

Sherlock’s eyes drop.

“I’m not angry about it anymore.It’s done.And you—in a lot of ways you’ve gone above and beyond trying to make that right.So, you’re the most solid thing in my life.You’re by far the most real.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…It means you’re the one thing that matters.It means you’re home to me, Sherlock.You’ve always been home to me.”

“As you’ve been to me.”Sherlock’s voice is rough, and it’s hard to tell in the dark of the cab, but his eyes seem to glisten in the meagre street light shining in from outside.

“Well, good.That’s good.I just wanted to make sure you knew that—with me moving back in and all.I wanted you to know what you meant to me, to know that I take it seriously.That this isn’t just a casual, temporary thing.That this is about us being…”

“Family.”

John looks up from his hands.“Family.Yeah.”

Sherlock nods, and turns to stare out the window, and John lets his eyes slide shut again.The pounding in his head is starting to subside.The pain in his leg has faded to a quiet throb.His hands have stopped shaking.


	12. Day 12 - Christmas Crackers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 12**

**Prompt: Christmas Crackers**

 

“Shh…It’s a surprise. We have to save it for later.Sherlock’s sleeping.”

“Sher sleeping?”

“Yeah.Daddy kept him up half the night, last night, being a ridiculous git.”

“Sleep.”

“Yeah, we’ll let him sleep a little bit longer, and when he wakes up you can help him open it, okay.Bet he’ll like this one, what’s it look like with all these stripes, hmm?”

Sherlock is laid out on the sofa, slowly drifting awake.John, home from work.Picked up Rosie at playgroup, came here instead of to his own bleak flat. 

He smiles, eyes still closed as he hears John buzz, and Rosie giggle.

“BEE!”

“Shhh…Yeah, a bee.You know what?”

“Wha?”

“I think Sherlock likes bees.He has a lot of books about them lately, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock sits up, and rubs a hand over his face and through his hair.“I hear you two plotting in there.”

“SHER!”

John appears at the entrance to the kitchen, Rosie slung onto one hip.“Hey.”

Rosie has a black and yellow striped Christmas cracker hugged to her chest.She holds it out.

“They had a holiday lunch at the surgery today.Had some of these left over.Thought I’d bring one home.She wants you to help her open it,” John explains.“You sleep all day?”

“It seems so.”

“I’m sorry about last night.You didn’t have to stay up.”

“You were unwell.I wanted to.”

John’s eyes flit away from his.“Appreciated it.”

“Bee,” Rosie offers, craning forward, cracker extended.

“You want to open it?Well, let’s open it then.”Sherlock stands up and brushes his palms down the front of his trousers before walking over and taking hold of one end of the cracker.“Mind you pull hard, or it won’t work.”

Rosie makes good on her first effort, pulling so hard that not only is there the usual satisfying bang, but the cracker tears in half, all it’s contents spilling to the carpet in a jumble.

John laughs, and puts her down, getting to his knees to gather up the fallen trinkets.“Well, she’s got an arm on her.”He scoops up the yellow paper crown, and plops it down on her head.“There you go queen bee.”

Sherlock chuckles as she scrambles to her feet, scoops up the sad remains of the cracker, and buzzes her way into the kitchen.When he looks back down, John is on one knee in front of him, elbow propped on one thigh, palm open.

In the centre is a gold ring.

It feels like someone’s punched him in the gut, sucked all the air from his lungs.His mind whites out.His mouth goes dry.

_It makes no sense._

(but something as ridiculous as the Christmas cracker _is_ very John)

_John would never._

(but then again, they _are_ family, John is staying, he’d said so)

_He’s not this lucky._

_John doesn’t feel_ that _way about him._

_John worries what people think, say._

_John…_

John is getting to his feet, dropping a small bee keychain and a paper fortune into his palm on top of what Sherlock now realises is nothing more than a novelty ring, stowed inside the cracker with everything else.

John is smiling, saying something.Face scrunching in confusion.His smile fades.

Sherlock burns with mortification.Stupid.To instantaneously jump to conclusions without relevant data.To make assumptions.To feel, to hope, to want something so utterly beyond… To expect—when John has made himself clear on the matter so many times, and in so many ways… 

Unbearable!Unforgivable!An utter betrayal of heart and brain.

“Excuse me.”Sherlock somehow manages.He walks down the hall to the toilet and shuts the door.

He feels a fool.He is. _That_ was never something he had ever considered, wanted, thought about—not really, not seriously, well, not for any prolonged period of time, anyway.He hadn’t even been thinking of such a thing.Why then did his mind so immediately jump to such a ludicrous conclusion, and worse yet, why, simmering just beneath the surface of the adrenaline-fuelled anxiety, had there been a quiet, desperate hope?

He hasn’t hated himself this much since that day behind the gymnasium when he was twelve years old, hurt and confused, left cradling a bloody lip while Victor Trevor dashed away over the football pitch, never to speak to him again.

He throws down the toilet lid and sinks onto it, thrusting his fingers into his hair, pulling hard, willing the pain without to override the pain within.He should never have let himself sink this deep.He should never, ever have…

An unexpected tap at the door, triggers an embarrassing whimper of surprise. 

 _Weak.Stupid!_  

He sits up, bites down hard on his lip to stop it from trembling.“I’m fine.”He’s pleased at how calm he manages to sound.

“You sure?”John’s voice is careful, soft.He’s clearly worried.

“Yes.”

“Can you come out here for a second, so I can confirm that for myself?”

“In a minute.”

“Okay, but I’m going to wait right here—just so you know.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches upward in spite of himself.

“Please come out.”

Sherlock sighs.He hates that his eyes prick, and his cheeks are hot.John will see everything, everything written all over him like the morning paper.But he can’t say no when John says _please_ , when he has that slight lilt of concern in his voice, and he’s so obviously tip-toeing around Sherlock’s feelings. 

It’s been years since he’s been so careful and attentive…And Sherlock had been a fool then (well, more of a fool, a different kind of fool than he is tonight), he’d taken John’s concern and his desire to help for granted. 

He’s since promised himself—no more of that.

John must have been standing very close to the door, because he takes a small hop back in surprise when Sherlock opens it.His brow is knit with worry.“Hey.”

“I’m fine, John.”

“Didn’t look fine just now.”

“It was nothing.Just—a small mental misstep.”

John nods.There is a look in his eye that says he isn’t buying it, but he’s going to let it slide anyway—just this one more time.He reaches down, and fishes about in his trouser pocket, hand reappearing with the bee keychain from the cracker.“Thought you might like this.It’s too small for Rosie to play with.What’s this thing with you and bees lately, anyway?”

Sherlock shrugs, and takes the proffered gift.“Just an interest.Apiology is fascinating, and very educational.I thought I might start a rooftop hive in the Spring.Rosie can assist with its care when she gets a little older.”

“You already planning that far ahead?”

_Oh._

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“No.I mean, yeah.Of course.Yeah.I just…”John’s face does something Sherlock can’t interpret.For a brief moment he thinks he might cry, but it softens out in the end, as John fishes back into his pocket and pulls out the cursed ring.“Think I’m going to hang on to this.”He holds it up between them in the dim of the hall, and then slips it into his breast pocket with a pat.“Might come in handy someday, you never know.”

Sherlock feels his stomach start to turn over sour with disappointment and anger at himself.To dare to hope that anything John had said to him in the cab the night before could, or should, for even a moment, be taken seriously…?Ludicrous.

John is moving, he suddenly realises.His face intent, almost pained.He takes a step forward, and then another, until his body is mere inches from Sherlock’s, so close Sherlock can sense the heat coming off him, smell the scent of tea on his breath and feel the way it stutters with the enormity of the courage this is taking.

Without a word, John stretches up on his toes and presses his lips, stiff and unmoving, against the line of Sherlock’s jaw.He stays there, breathing softly, mouth against Sherlock’s stubbled skin, trembling hands resting lightly on his arms for balance.

Sherlock lets his eyes slide shut.He doesn’t know what else to do.He doesn’t know what it is, what it means.He should care about that, but he can’t bring himself to.

He should do something with his hands, but he doesn’t dare move for fear John will think twice about whatever this is, and move away.

“Can we go back to the beginning, do you think?”John murmurs, sinks down to the flat of his feet, presses his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder.“Could we maybe do it different this time?”

“A fresh start?”Sherlock lets his hands find a familiar home on John’s shoulder, at the nape of his neck.

John simply nods.

“I’d like that.”

“Yeah?Me too.”

John steps closer, close enough that his chest presses against Sherlock’s, and Sherlock’s head goes light.

“Daddy, Pengwings!”loudly from the lounge.

John huffs against his shoulder.He pulls back.“Sorry.She’s watching something on the BBC.”

Sherlock’s skin still tingles where John’s mouth had lingered, and John is staying, hovering close like he doesn’t want to pull away or break the spell anymore than Sherlock does.But as usual, neither of them seems to know what to say.

“Daddy!”Rosie appears at the end of the hallway, yellow paper crown half crushed against her blond curls, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

John steps away, and Sherlock feels instantly bereft.

“What, Ro?”

“Pengwings!”

“Yeah?That’s great.Go back and watch them, okay.”

She disappears into the lounge again.

“Last night,” Sherlock ventures, now that the air around them seems a little less electric.“What did Greg say to you?”

“This isn’t about that.”

“Yes.Fine.But, what did he say?”

John takes a deep breath, and stares down at the floor.“He let me know—in not so many words...He told me I was hurting you.”

Sherlock frowns in confusion, but when John looks up and sees, he just shakes his head.

“No.He was right.He was right, wasn’t he?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but it’s too unexpected.Nothing comes.

John just nods and licks his lips.“Listen, I’ve needed to get myself sorted for a long time.Years probably.Maybe decades.And I’ve been beating around the bush, and when that was just hurting me, or people I hardly knew or cared about that was one thing.But when it’s hurting people I love, that’s not good.So, this is me working on getting sorted.Fresh start.No more running.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Do _you_?”

“I don’t know.I’m pants at this, you know that.I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m going to try harder, Sherlock.For Rosie, for you, for all our sakes.”

Sherlock nods, even though he isn’t really sure he knows what this means, wonders if John knows either.He wants to ask what it will look like in the reality of their day-to-day, whether what they shared a moment ago might be something that will happen again, whether John getting himself sorted means he will stop constantly avoiding, rejecting, resenting the need and care of those who love him, if Sherlock being _a person John loves_ , means that John _loves_ him.There is so much he longs to know, but he doesn’t dare ask. 

This is enough for one night.More than enough.Best to let it lie.

“Did you eat?”

“No.Didn’t have time.Traffic was terrible.”

“Should I order a takeaway, or make something?”

“The parenting superhero in me says cook, but my empty belly says takeaway.”

Sherlock chuckles.“I’ll get Thai, that way there will be rice and vegetables for Rosie.”

“Ta.Pad Thai, for me.Sounds so good right now.Listen, you mind if we stay the night again?I’m too knackered to drive all the way back tonight.”

“Of course not, you live here now, remember.”

“Almost.Don’t like to presume.”

“When it comes to sleeping under this roof, feel free to presume.”

It starts to snow during supper, and so John would have had to stay either way, but Sherlock can’t help but feel a warmth and rightness at the sight of John settled in his chair, head dipping and lolling as he slowly falls asleep reading one of the mediocre crime novels he so favours.Sitting there, sleeping there, because he chooses to be there.

To start again…

No panicked rebuffing of subconscious advances.No walls up.No games.No leaving—ever again, for any reason.No miscommunications, manipulations.No lies.

It’s a rather weighty ask, and Sherlock isn’t sure if either of them is capable of it, truthfully, but if the commitment is there…

It’s something.It’s a beginning at least.


	13. Day 13 - Family Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 13**

**Prompt: Family Visit**

 

“Why are you here?”

Client?John stops washing the dishes iand takes a step away from the sink in an attempt to better hear who is in the hall.

“Oh Sherlock, behave.”

Ahh…The Holmeses. 

“We’re here because we were in the city shopping, and we knew you would find a way to refuse us Christmas Day, so we thought we would come by and surprise you, give you your gifts, and have a cup of tea.”

“I see.”

John finishes drying the plate in his hand, and walks into the lounge. 

“Oh.You have company,” Mr. Holmes looks truly apologetic.

“No, no, it’s fine.Just my day off.Thought I’d come over and sit for awhile while my little one’s at playgroup.”

Mr. Holmes hums.“Ah, a quiet afternoon.Rare thing these days, I imagine.A little girl isn’t it?”

John smiles wondering how he knows.“Rosie.Light of my life.”

“I was very sorry to hear about your wife.Terrible business, that.”

John experiences an odd moment of detachment, as though he had forgotten he was ever married at all.He wonders what the Holmes parents were told.How much they know.It seems wrong, suddenly, that he was never told.

Sherlock sighs loudly, and then turns and walks away without a word, heading for the kitchen, leaving John standing there, tea towel draped over his arm, feeling a bit ambushed, and every bit the third wheel. 

“I suppose you’ll be wanting food of some kind,” Sherlock’s voice drawls from the kitchen.

“Oh no.We’ve eaten.The most lovely tea at The Dorchester.Your father simply stuffed himself with pies.”

“Then why am I making you tea again?”

“Sherlock,” John reprimands without thinking. 

Mrs. Holmes gives him a look, one that is so like Sherlock that he would laugh if not for the fact that he feels she’s sizing him up.

With a tight smile he nods, and retreats to back to the kitchen.

Sherlock glances up the minute he enters, a look of abject suffering on his face.He’s in a fine sulk already, it’s clear.

“Here, what’s the matter with you?”John whispers.

“They know not to come without calling first,” whispered harshly in return.

“Does it matter all that much?”

“Yes!”

“Well—they’re here, and it seems like they’re staying, so what do you want me to do?I can leave if you want.”

“No!”Sherlock shouts in a whisper.“No.Stay.Please.”

“Yeah…Okay.”

“I’m sorry about Dad mentioning…”

“He was just being considerate.It’s fine.Which reminds me, what were they told?”

“Told?”

“About how she…”

“Oh.Car accident.”

John nods.It seems wrong somehow, but he can’t tell why.He just feels numb, like they’re talking about someone else’s life.Maybe they are, in a way…

“Make the tea, and then go back out there, and open the gifts they have for you, tell them what you’ve been up to.Simple as that.”

The kettle chooses that very moment to finish boiling, and Sherlock goes to tend to it, while John finishes up with the last of the dishes.When the tea has brewed, and the cups are filled Sherlock hesitates.“Will you come?”

John’s smile is crooked with confusion.Parent’s can be—a lot.He gets that, but just what this is…?“Yeah.Go on.I’m right behind you.”

_______________________________________

 

There is small talk, and gifts: a rather nice pair of cashmere socks, what looks like an excellent bottle of wine, a fountain pen.There is talk of Mycroft never coming to see them, and of Sherlock looking better than he did in the Spring, and has he been eating, and sleeping, and staying out of trouble, which John assumes is family code for him staying off the drugs. 

And then there is Sherlock pacing the floor, practically climbing the walls until John feels like his doing the same in sympathetic anxiety. 

He’s actually relieved when he looks down, and realises he is late for picking up Rosie.He makes his excuses and brief good-byes, and sucks in a bracing breath of fresh air to clear his head as he finally stumbles out onto the street to hale a cab.

He’s halfway to the playgroup when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

 

> _Are you coming back?_
> 
>  
> 
> **Wasn’t planning on it.**
> 
>  
> 
> _alright._
> 
>  
> 
> **Rosie’s getting worn down with all the back and forth, and the flat is a mess, and the estate agent is coming Saturday.I’m behind on everything.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Sherlock?**

 

There’s no response

_______________________________________  
****

Rosie is screaming when he picks her up.Some mishap during outdoor play.She’s uninjured, but angry as hell.Three empty cabs pass them by in row.It starts to rain.By the time a cab finally has pity on him and stops, Rosie’s screaming has descended into full out tantrum, and he has to practically wrestle her into the car.

The next few minutes pass in a blur as he struggles to keep her in his lap, tries not to be too hard on himself for not thinking to bring the car when he went to Sherlock’s earlier, and tries, with everything in his power, to not epically lose his temper.

The cab slows to a stop, and John sighs with relief, wrestles Rosie and all their things back out onto the kerb, and suddenly realises he’s standing in front of 221b.He’s too confused and embarrassed to ask the cabbie about it, and he’s too tired to catch another all the way back to Acton now, there’s nothing for it.He scoops Rosie up, half tossing her over his shoulder, screams, snot, sticky, pudding-stained shirt, and all, somehow manages the bags on top of it all, and marches upstairs.

“Oh, oh, oh…Little bee, shh…”Mrs. Holmes tuts as he walks through the door to the lounge with Rosie still in high dudgeon.

Sherlock strides forward, looking almost relieved to see him, in spite of everything.He takes Rosie into his arms.Miraculously, she stops screaming, and rests her head on his chest as she stares over at the two strangers in the lounge with undisguised curiosity.

“Are you done screaming, then?”She looks up at Sherlock, and nods.“Good.Now come meet my parents.There’s tea left in the pot, John.You look like you could use a cup.”

And just like that everything is right again.

_______________________________________

 

Sherlock’s parents linger.They coo over Rosie, and she basks in being the centre of attention.Sherlock orders food after all, when it gets late enough, and Rosie starts to fuss. 

Angelo delivers, and they eat in the lounge with plates on their laps, and the excellent wine the Holmeses brought served up in a motley assortment of chipped glass wear.Sherlock offers to put Rosie down for the night, and his mother insists on supervising the bath, much to Sherlock’s chagrin, but the quiet is nice after the three most talkative members of their group retreat to the loo.

John and Sherlock’s father are left in the quiet of lounge, with nothing but the crackling of the fire to break the silence.

“I only met her once, but she seemed a lovely woman, your wife.”

John takes a sip of wine, trying to get his bearings.“She was.She could be.She was a bloody handful at times, but you know…”

Mr. Holmes chuckles.“It’s the really clever ones that are like that.A little bit mad, maybe, but you wouldn’t want them any other way.”

John huffs out a soft laugh, and then sobers.

“Oh.Or perhaps…?”When John looks up, Mr. Holmes is staring at him—empathetic, sympathetic.His voice is soft and low—an invitation.And John doesn’t know why he suddenly feels safe here, with a near stranger.Perhaps it is the almost imperceptible similarities to Sherlock, little mannerisms, turns of speech, perhaps it is the warm, quiet atmosphere of the flat that has always felt like home, especially after the disaster that was his day.

John stares down at his hands.“She—wasn’t who I thought she was.Probably my fault, that.I rushed into it.I was a mess when I met her.Been through a lot.I was trying to—forget things, to move on from…”

“Sherlock?”

John’s head snaps up, and he realises too late that the corner of his eyes are pricking with impending tears.All he can do is nod.

Mr. Holmes, leans back in Sherlock’s chair, and stares into the fire.“When I was nineteen, I went to Cambridge.Ridiculous expense.I had a wealthy uncle.I was _worth the investment_ according to him.

“I was never one to make friends easily, so when a boy in my year seemed to constantly be seeking out my company, I took him up on it.We had an instant affinity for one another.He was brilliant, the sort of lad who burns hot, and bright.He was a tad eccentric, very bohemian, but his eccentricities didn’t bother me.We shared rooms for three years.And then we fought over something, something that seemed monumental at the time, but which I barely remember now—wholly inconsequential in the grand scheme, I assure you.We fought, and I moved out.

“He wrote me a few months later, begging forgiveness, but I couldn’t.There was my hurt, my wounded pride, my anger—but mostly my fear.He wrote, and wrote.I got letters from him for six months, and then they just stopped coming. 

“His brother rang me one day, and told me he had died.Heart attack.Congenital heart defect, undetected.It felt like my fault.I’m still not entirely certain it wasn’t.”

He turns and looks at John then, and the depth of feeling he’d had for the boy is only too clear.

“I don’t remember much about the year after that.I dropped out of university.I think I drank most of it.And then one day, I met a girl.She had warm brown eyes, ginger hair.She was full of life.She didn’t look a thing like him, but in every other respect she reminded me exactly of him.After three months, I married her.”

John looks over, but Mr. Holmes has gone back to staring into the dying flames.

“That marriage lasted less than a year.I had never been more miserable.I tried to convince myself that I was satisfied, that it was working, but there was always something missing, something more I wanted, that I couldn’t define. 

“In retrospect, it’s clear I never should have married her in the first place.She was a lovely person, but not who I wanted, who I needed.I barely knew her when we got married, and I think I had only fallen in with her because I couldn’t bear the awful, gaping aloneness…”

He finally tears his eyes away from the fire to meet John’s again.“I met Sherlock’s mother many years later, and she has been the love and joy of my life, but if I could turn back time, if I could be standing where you are now…These are different times, Dr. Watson.Don’t waste them.”

“I know how to dry her hair, Mummy.I’ve done it hundreds of times.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Dear.It’s beneath you.”

Mr. Holmes smiles, and John grins back.

“You need help back there.”

“Of course not, John.”

“She ready for her story?”

“Mad line!”

“In a few minutes once your hair is dry.”

“Mad line!”

John rolls his eyes heavenward, and slaps his hands against his knees.“Madeline it is, it seems.”He stops halfway out of the lounge, turns.Mr. Holmes has gone back his glass of wine.John wants to say something, to thank him, but he can’t seem to find the words.

There is a terrific squeal from Rosie in the loo, the sound of Sherlock trying to logically reason with her, Mrs. Holmes telling him that Rosie is not yet two, and isn’t going to respond to that sort of approach. 

Mr. Holmes turns, sees John standing there.He nods.“Best go see to your family, Dr. Watson.”


	14. Day 14 - Christmas Carols

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 14**

**Prompt: Christmas Carols**

 

Rosie insists on walking from the carpark to the flat.It’s rush hour, and John has to focus on holding fast to her hand so she doesn’t dart into traffic, it takes them twice the time it normally would, but he’s feeling relaxed, generous, like maybe, finally, a little Christmas spirit is starting to rub off on him.  
 ****

The smell of roast beef and the sound of violin music drifts through the door, borne on a waft of warm air, as he swings it open.Rosie instantly goes for the stairs.

“Wait up, Ro.Wait for your old Dad.”

“Moosic.”

“Yeah, Christmas music.”

Mrs. Hudson emerges from her flat carrying two mugs.“Oh John, I thought I heard you.Sherlock said you were on your way, so I made you some hot cocoa.I’ll bring some warm milk up for Rosie once you’re all settled.And I was feeling a little domestic today, so I’ve made you all your supper.” 

“Ta.Food smells wonderful.”

Mrs. Hudson, smiles, and waves a hand in modest dismissal.

“You’re an angel, Mrs. Hudson!”He calls, as she disappears back into her flat with a giggle.

Predictably, Rosie insists on mounting the stairs on her own, so he walks slowly behind her, feeling the last of the day’s tension drop from his shoulders with each step.

Above them, Sherlock has finished _Ave Maria_ , and moved on to _Silent Night_. 

When they finally reach the top of the stairs, Rosie squirms and wiggles while he sets the mugs down on the stairs, and strips her out of her coat and boots.The minute he’s done, she sprints for the lounge.

It takes John a moment to get himself sorted, as well, and when he finally strolls through the kitchen and into the lounge to join them, he stops dead.Rosie has her arms wrapped around Sherlock’s leg, hugging tight, eyes closed, a look of sheer delight on her face, while Sherlock smiles down at her as he plays.

John swallows back a sudden tightness in his throat.

When Sherlock finally looks up and catches his eye, his eyebrow cocks in question at the emotion John knows must be visible on his face.He simply smiles in response, lifts the mug of cocoa, so Sherlock knows it’s on offer, and then walks over and sets both mugs down on the table beside his chair.

Sherlock continues to play, and Rosie continues to hold on tight, eyes open now, staring up at him in rapt awe.It’s a look John can identify with.It’s the same way he looked at Sherlock the night they met—wholly transfixed, awed—utterly besotted.

He’s so different now from how he was that night.They both are.But the Sherlock standing here in the cozy lounge, in ratty pyjamas and a £500 dressing gown, is still, in his essentials, the same man he had fallen for, so instantly, all those years ago.And somewhere John knows he lost sight of that, somewhere along the line he let his anger, and hurt over being left behind consume him, let his fear of what they could become drive him away when Sherlock turned out to be not so dead after all.

But he’s home now—or nearly.He’s here tonight, and he’s on his way to being here every night for the rest his life.

Sherlock, finishes the song, adjusts the violin under his chin, and plays the first strains of _I’ll Be Home for Christmas_.

Home.

John is home, truly home, for maybe the first time in his life.

He takes a step toward Sherlock, and then another, and another, until he is close enough that he knows he must sense his presence, feel his warmth.

Rosie looks up at him, and he smiles down at her, takes the final step, and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist, presses his face between his shoulder blades and listens to the music echo through his body, and into his own.Sherlock’s abdomen tenses for the briefest of moments, but he never misses a note, and he relaxes again, just as quickly.

They stand that way for John doesn’t know how long.The song ends, another begins.Rosie pulls away at some point to dance around the room, and still John stays where he is, listens to Sherlock’s heart beat, the breath rush comfortingly in and out of his lungs, all the things John had dreamed of doing those the long, dark nights the two years Sherlock had been away, dreamed of doing if by some miracle Sherlock could come home to him. 

And now here they are, and it’s John doing the coming home.It will never be the same as it was, but it feels here, in this moment, like maybe it could become something better, like this is what and who they were meant to be all along.

John let’s his eyes slide shut.He breathes.


	15. Day 15 - London Christmas Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 15**

**Prompt: London Christmas Lights**

 

John lets out a low whistle as they exit the restaurant-kitchen crime scene, and emerge from the alley onto New Bond Street.It’s the wee hours, and the street is all but abandoned, but it’s still impressive with the shop display windows lit up, and the holiday light display glittering overhead.“Christ, who shops in some of these places?”

“People who believe that a fine wardrobe will make up for a lack of personality, I imagine.I myself shop at Belstaff and Armani on occasion.”

It takes John a minute to tell if he’s joking, but when Sherlock’s mouth quirks up in the corner he laughs along.“Not sure that even that coat of yours could make up for your personality when you’re itching for a case.”

“True.”

John eyes a navy and white striped cashmere jumper in the window of Ralph Lauren, and then tears his eyes away when he imagines the price and all the other things he’d be better off spending the money on.“Lights are gorgeous though, aren’t they.”

Sherlock looks up over their heads at the festoons and chandeliers formed entirely of white-lit peacock feathers.“Yes.Lovely.Not to my taste, but lovely.”

“Not to your taste?”John grins.“So you have opinions on Christmas decorations now, do you?I seem to remember that first Christmas we lived together, and I asked what sort of decorations you’d like, you told me, and I quote…”He puts on his best Sherlock impression.“’Decorate if you must, John.I’ve no opinion or input on the matter, whatsoever.It’s a meaningless and over-commercialised holiday, and I refuse to acknowledge it.’”

Sherlock frowns.“That seems like a great deal of detail for your brain to retain after so many years.I believe you made that up just now.”

“Oh no.No, no, no,” John laughs.“Those were your exact words, you git.I put up whatever I wanted, and you very pointedly ignored my every attempt at festivity.”

“I attended your tedious party, didn’t I?”

“And hopped out a few minutes in, after…”John clears his throat, suddenly realising he’s inadvertently stumbled into the _forbidden topic._

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

And is instantly grateful for the graceful way Sherlock sidesteps it.

“So, what _is_ to your taste then?”

“The lights you’ve put up in the flat this year are acceptable.Rather nice, actually.”

This was not at all the response John had imagined.“They’re just some multi-coloured fairy lights, some tinsel, a bit of holly, and the mistletoe, of course, but that was Mrs. Hudson’s doing.”

“Yes.Obviously.But still, they’re rather—cheery.”

“Huh…Well, good to know for next year.Maybe we could even do a tree sometime.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

John chuckles, and sways to the side a little, playfully nudging Sherlock with his shoulder.“It’s Christmas.Be nice.”

“It isn’t, and I’m always nice to you.”

“Oh, is that so?!” John teases.“What about the druggings, hmm?Or that little stunt in the restaurant the night you came back?Or nearly scaring me to death with that carriage bomb thing, just to get an apology out of me, which you would have gotten eventually, anyway, you know.Or that time at Baskerville?Tried to drug me _and_ scared me out of my wits.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point.”And Sherlock’s tone is suddenly far too serious for the playful banter John thought they were engaging in.

John reaches out for Sherlock’s arm.“Hey, I was just teasing with you.You know that right?”

Sherlock stops walking, fishes into his pockets, absentmindedly John assumes, as he comes out empty.He balls his hands in tight fists instead, thumb rubbing agitatedly across his knuckles.“I _am_ sorry, John—for all the ways I hurt you, and I know there have been many.”

“Hey…”John takes a step forward, wills Sherlock to look up from the pavement.“It’s okay.I mean, it wasn’t, but you’re sorry, and it’s done, and just try not to do it again, yeah?”He shrugs, “though—the druggings might be okay, now and again—you know,” he grins.“If I asked.”

Sherlock finally looks up, a small wrinkle of confusion between his brows.“Why would you ask?”

It’s only then that John’s brain catches up with his mouth.He can feel his cheeks heat. _Where did that come from?_

He just shakes his head.“Never mind.Just—we’re good, okay.You’ve made the effort the last couple of years, more than I bloody have, that’s for sure.You—you don’t have anything else to apologise for.”

Something cold lands on John’s nose, and he looks up.“Oh hey…Snow.Will you look at that.”

“Indeed.”The flakes are light, and fat.They float slowly down, collecting in Sherlock’s hair like frosted dandelion down.“Perhaps we should get a cab.”

“It’s a twenty minute walk, and it’s not cold.I’d rather walk if that’s okay.Kind of enjoying this.Not every day you get to stroll through London, in the wee hours, with the man you…”

John swallows, scans the street.It’s quiet and still, the softly falling snow, and gently swaying Christmas lights, the only movement he can see.He turns his attention back to Sherlock, takes a step closer, until the small clouds of their breath mingle together in the cold night air.“I’m glad you’re here with me.I’m glad we’re here together.”

Sherlock looks down at him, face softer than John has ever seen it, eyes full.“Me too.”Whispered.All pretence dropped.Open.Almost—vulnerable.

John takes another step.They’re close enough now, that he can feel Sherlock’s warmth seeping out from the folds of his open coat.John reaches out and buttons it up.“You’re going to get a chill.You and these bloody shirts.Like a second skin.Not fit for winter.”

“You like my shirts,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Noticed that, have you?”

“Mm.”

“There.”John smooths his hand over the buttons, stares at Sherlock’s chest, and feels a magnetic pull for something—something more.His mouth goes dry.He takes a deep breath of cool air.“Better?”

Sherlock nods, but he’s not moving.John can feel his eyes on him, staring down at the top of his head.If he looks up now, he knows that everything he’s feeling will be perfectly visible, that Sherlock will read him like a book.A surge of adrenaline races through his veins at the thought.

He looks up.

Sherlock does just that—reads it all.His eyes go soft, momentarily hungry, and then tender again, and his fingers seek John’s, tangle.“Your hands are cold.”

“We left in such a rush.Didn’t think to check the weather.”

“You never think to check the weather,” he chastises, still fond, still drawing closer.

Sherlock’s fingers wrap around both of John’s hands, lift them to his chest, and wrap them up in his.And John’s heart hammers in his chest.His blood heats, and all he can think of is the sensation of his hands wrapped up in Sherlock’s larger ones—warm,bound, safe. 

Sherlock smiles softly.“Let’s go home.”


	16. Day 16 - Let it Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 16**

**Prompt: Let it Snow**

 

The snow continues to float slowly down as they turn onto Oxford Street.A cab goes by now and again, but given the hour (nearly 3:00), there is hardly a soul about.There is a hush to the city that seems almost unnatural, as though every living person on earth has disappeared, Sherlock thinks, and it is just the two of them.

John is quiet as he strolls beside him, shoes, inadequate for the weather, squeaking in the wet snow.It’s a pity.They’re lovely shoes.But John’s attention seems to be focussed on things other than sartorial mishaps.

He’s walking close so that their hands brush now and again.Each touch sends a frisson of awareness singing through Sherlock’s veins.John is here.John is glad to be here.John is close.John is touching.Every step toward home, every brush of their fingers, every time he feels John steal a glance at him, his brain is filled to overflowing with john, _John_ , John…

Something in John has shifted the last few days.Sherlock has tried to work out the what, the why, the how of it, and come up empty-handed, but he is not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.In truth he relishes (perhaps too willingly) in the sudden warmth.Is it all a part of John’s determination to start again?Is it something that can last?

They turn onto Orchard Street, and the last long stretch home.They also turn directly into the wind.John shivers and stuffs his hands in his pockets.“Christ, it’s colder than it seems once you get out in the wind, isn’t it.”

“Mm.”

John steps a little closer, as though seeking out the warmth of Sherlock’s body.“Not dressed for it, really.”

“As I said.”

John picks up his pace a little, no doubt wanting to get home as soon as possible, and in front of a warm fire.Sherlock picks up his own to match it.

“Can’t feel my fingers.”

“You’ll get frostbite.I’m getting you gloves for Christmas.I’m stitching them inside your pockets.”

He hears John sigh, beside him.“Speaking of pockets…Listen, mind if I…?”

And suddenly John’s hand is slipping into the pocket of Sherlock’s coat, icy fingers seeking out the heat of his warmer ones.The contrast in temperature, so sudden, so unexpected, it sends a surge of desire racing through Sherlock’s veins. 

Every inch of his body suddenly becomes hyper-aware.Every sensation heightened: the soft swish of the hem of his coat against the back of his calves as he walks, the brush of silk-cotton blend against his chest, the slide of John’s cold fingers as they mesh with his in the dark, warm cocoon of his pocket.

They’re on Baker Street before he knows it, unsurprising given the speed John is walking.  When they finally reach the flat, John pulls his hand away to dig into his own pocket and fetch the key.Sherlock feels immediately bereft.

He’s being quite ridiculous, he realises that.Mycroft’s voice in his head chastises him for wanting something so trite, so pedestrian, so overwhelmingly sentimental, this badly.But then Mycroft isn’t here and Mycroft doesn’t know everything.He doesn’t know what it is to walk down a hushed, snowy, London street, in the wee hours, with the hand of the man you have loved for longer than you can remember cradled safely in yours.He doesn’t know what it is to feel this sort of hope, nor does he realise that sometimes emotional risk, no matter how extreme, is worth it in the end.

He silences the voice in his head.Mycroft isn’t here.No one is here.They are standing at the front door of their flat, in the softly falling snow, Baker Street all but abandoned.it’s unprecedented.Sherlock tries not to dwell on it, tries not to think of how it seems as though the stars are aligning just for them, in this moment, how sometimes the universe, against all evidence to the contrary, gives little extras, just because.

“You coming?”John says in the open doorway behind him.

“It’s beautiful.”

John steps back down on the stoop, shuts the door quietly behind him again.“It is—yeah.It never snows like this.A white Christmas, maybe.”

“Doubtful.It’s supposed to warm up early next week.”

“Party pooper.”

John is standing next to him again.Close, arm against arm.It feels like perhaps he’s waiting (hoping?) for something to happen.

Sherlock thinks of John’s lips pressed against his jaw in the hallway outside the loo just a few nights prior, thinks of his fingers tangled with his in the warmth of his pocket, of all the little ways his body has telegraphed attraction, desire, affection for years.He thinks of Victor, all those years ago, how he had sucked in a little gasp of surprise, melted into the kiss one instant, and then pulled back with a shout, and a punch, and a violent shove, the next.

It’s a risk.It _is_ a risk.But it feels like one worth taking.

“You seem different.”

He sees John’s face turn toward him out of the corner of his eye.“Do I?”

“Mm.”

“Good different, or bad different?”

“Just different.It’s new.It’s not unpleasant.”

“Yeah?It okay if I keep being different?”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to shift a little, to let their fingers tangle again, to look down at the gold-silver waves of John’s hair, dusted with snow, and feel his heart warm with an overwhelming fondness.“You should be who you are, and if this is that, then yes.By all means, continue.”Sherlock strokes his thumb along the back of John’s hand, and John looks up at him. 

“I love you.”

Sherlock stops breathing.

“I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, even if it took me awhile to realise that what I was feeling was that.There’s never been a moment, since we met, that I didn’t love you.I—I wanted you to know that.”

John stares back out at the street, at the snow collecting on the road, and sidewalks, and the tops of cars.

“I’ve done so much I’ve not been proud of the last few years.And I’m trying to be better.I know sometimes I still fail, but I’m trying. And I’m going to keep trying, because the last thing I ever wanted to do was to hurt you.

“Sherlock, I was never angry at you.I was angry at myself, and I’m trying to work on that, to become someone I can be proud of.So—I felt this was a good start.I’ve wanted—needed to tell you for a very long time, but—I was an idiot.I was an idiot, and I let things hold me back.But not anymore.So—now you know.”

Sherlock feels cold where the tears have spilled over to wet his cheeks and slide under the folds of his scarf, but the rest of him is warm.It is totally unexpected, and he wants to say so much in return, but his brain is betraying him.Too much at once.

John is looking at him curiously.He watches as the confusion slowly melds into worry.He nods once, and rubs a hand over the back of his neck.“Listen, this doesn’t have to change things between us.I don’t—I don’t have expectations.We’re family, first and foremost, and anything else…Well, there doesn’t have to be anything else, if you don’t want.I just—I wanted you to know.”

Sherlock needs to say something.Anything!

“Alright.”

John’s brow furrows.

_But maybe not that!_

“You okay?”John’s voice is low, careful.He’s worried.Disappointed.Retreating. 

Sherlock is losing him.Ruining this perfect moment.he curses his brain and body, as he squeezes his eyes shut.

It’s quiet in the dark.There is the soft sigh of the wind, the shush of snowflakes hitting the ground around them, the distant hum of the city.There is John—breathing.

Sherlock turns, and takes him in his arms.He can feel the relief wash through John’s body, the way he rests his head over Sherlock’s heart, melts against him, let’s his arms slip around his waist.

Sherlock presses his lips to the top of John’s head.“I’m sorry.It was unexpected.”

“But it’s okay?”

“Oh yes.”

He feels the last of the tension drop from John’s shoulders.A car drives by, and John pulls back.“You want to go inside?I could use a sit by the fire and a warm cup of tea.Christ, I’m going to be a zombie.Getting too old to be up all night.”

“Perhaps two cups of tea, then.”

John chuckles.“Perhaps that and a couple of cups of Mr. Chatterjee’s coffee.”He turns and opens the door.

“John…”

He turns back.“Yeah.”

“Me too.You know that, yes?”

John smiles softly.“I’d hoped…”He holds out his hand.“Now come on, it’s bloody freezing out here.Let’s get warmed up.”


	17. Day 17 - Christmas Telly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  **Note:** I cheated a little on this one. The theme is only touched on briefly at the end. Sorry about that. I'd recently written a scene using this film in another fic, and I didn't want to just regurgitate the same content.

******Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 17**

**Prompt: Christmas Telly**

John is exhausted.  He managed to get three hours of sleep before Rosie woke up, and then, because Sherlock was still sleeping, and he didn’t want to wake him, and because Mrs. Hudson had already gone above an beyond the night before with the impromptu child minding, he took Rosie out to the park, and then to a cafe for lunch, came home, dropped her off with Sherlock, who was just waking up, and then went back to Acton to his old flat to meet with the estate agent.  

It was an odd jolt to his system being back at the flat.  He’d not realised how little time he’d been spending there until he stepped back through the front door, and felt how stale the air was, how every surface was dull with dust, how the rooms echoed with ghosts.  He got through the meeting with the estate agent somehow, and then, after texting Sherlock three times on the way home with no response, stopped to get takeaway for supper, whether Sherlock liked it or not.

By the time he parks the car down the street from the flat, walks the block to the front door, and finally stumbles through, he is more than ready for a quiet night in.  A Christmas film on the telly, maybe.  A shared bowl of popcorn and a couple of beers between the two of them.

After his confession in the wee hours he’s been feeling anxious.  He’d only seen Sherlock for a few minutes when he dropped off Rosie earlier, and he hadn’t mentioned it at all (though admittedly he had still been half asleep).  So now, the evening feels full of promise as well as potential pitfalls.  Truthfully, he’s nervous as hell.

John stops dead at the bottom of the stairs to their flat.  He hears Sherlock’s low, rumbling laugh, and then—someone else.  Another man laughing in return.  John’s stomach twists.  He’s tired.  He’s hungry, and he doesn’t bloody need…  He stops and listens again.  Teddy.  Bloody Teddy!

He’s up the stairs before he even registers taking them.  Both Sherlock and Teddy turn as he strides in, every muscle in his body tense, fists balled, jaw tight.  “What’s this then?”

“Oh John, we’re just finishing up.  You brought supper?”

“Yeah, I bloody brought supper.  Texted you three times on the way over.  So you get what you get.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows retreat toward his hairline, and then settle into a knot of confusion.  “I apologise.  I was busy with Ted.”

“Ted?”

“Yeah,”  bloody Teddy (Ted?!!) waves his hand.  “That’s me.  Not sure if you remember, we met at the Met Christmas do.”

“Of course I bloody remember.  Why are you here?”

“John, Ted is a client.”

_Shit._

John feels his anger fade only to be replaced with embarassment.  He should apologise, but…

He turns and walks into the kitchen, and starts unpacking the takeaway boxes onto the table.  “Where’s Rosie?”

“Mrs. Hudson is baking.  She took Rosie to help with the biscuits.”

“Mm, well her supper’s here.  I’m going to go down and get her.”

“Alright.”

_________________________________

 

“Oh John, you’re home.  We’re just finishing up our little project.  Come and see what Rosie’s made.”

He follows Mrs. Hudson into her kitchen.  It smells of sugar, and cinnamon, and he can hear Rosie singing to herself, as she pounds her hands on the table.  There are rows and rows of tarts and biscuits sitting out to cool, and Rosie is smearing icing all over a small handful of the biscuits with her fingers, tossing pinches of candy sprinkles over their surface.  

It’s warm, and domestic, and perfect, and John feels a tightness in his throat, and a bite to his eyes as he considers just how much he doesn’t fit into the peaceful tableau after the way he’s just behaved.

“John?”

He swallows and turns, trying to brush it off, but knows that Mrs. Hudson will probably see everything.  Sometimes he thinks she’s worse than Sherlock.

“Oh, what’s happened?”

“Nothing.  Just a bad day, not enough sleep last night.  I’m fine.  Came to get this one for her supper.  I got a takeaway that’s getting cold.”

“Oh, well off you both go then.  Rosie, you take those biscuits and some of these tarts for your Daddies, and then you will all have a nice treat for after your supper.”

It’s the ‘your Daddies’ that does it.  The room blurs, and any self control John had is suddenly gone.  He’s crying, openly, in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, and it’s embarrassing and terrifying all at once, because he can’t seem to stop.

“Oh John, you’re not alright.  Sit down.  I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

“Daddy…”  

And now he’s scaring Rosie on top of it all.

“Daddy sad?”

He sniffs and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.  “Daddy’s okay, Ro,” he manages wetly.

Mrs. Hudson is putting the kettle on to boil.  She putters about, preparing his cup, and he sees her pick up her phone, send a brief text, and then go back to the task at hand.  In what seems like less than a minute, Sherlock appears.

“John?”

“Christ.  I’m fine.  I’m…”  But he’s not it seems.  His throat seizes with a sob, and he buries his face in his hands.  “Jesus.”

“Daddy.”  Rosie starts to cry.

“Daddy’s alright, Sweetheart.”  Mrs. Hudson walks over and unstraps her from her booster seat, lifts her into her arms.  “He’s just sad.  When he’s done crying, he’ll feel better.”

“John,” Sherlock’s hand is on his shoulder.  “Come.”

Sherlock is leading him out into the foyer.  There’s no sign of Teddy.  Sherlock doesn’t say anything, he just pulls John into his arms, and holds him tight.  And somehow that is worse, because it is better than anything John feels he deserves in that moment, and he wants to lash out, to push Sherlock away to shout at him and demand an explanation for how, despite everything, he can want him, love him, be standing here like this, holding him safe and close when John has just embarrassed them both with yet another irrational burst of jealousy and anger.

But he’s been doing that for too long too, punishing Sherlock for all the ways he hates himself, and he can’t keep…

“There’s never going to be anyone but you.  I know that, for some reason, that’s difficult for you to accept, but it is true.  He’s a client.  That’s all.  And I should have made you aware of that.  I’ve been so caught up since the party, it had totally slipped my mind.  I apologise for that.”

John shakes his head, forehead pressed to Sherlock’s chest.  “This isn’t about that.  I—I can’t keep hurting you.”

“You haven’t.  Not today.”

“It was unprofessional.  It was an embarassment.  It was rude as hell.”

“You’ve always been rude.  It’s one of your many charms.”

John sobs out a laugh.

Sherlock pulls him gently back against his chest.

“I scared Rosie.”

“I don’t imagine there can be much harm in a little girl seeing her father have a good cry now and again.”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you about the takeaway.”

“And I accept your apology.  I am quite hungry, though, do you think we might eat at some point.”

John huffs out a laugh.  “Git.”

Sherlock chuckles and finally pulls back.  “You did get me the crispy duck, though?”

“Of course,” John grins, wipes the tears from his cheeks.

Sherlock looks down at him, visibly concerned, but fond.  “Better?”

John nods, stares down at the floor.  “Last night…”

“Ah…”

He looks back up.  “Was it alright?”

“I love you, too.”

John’s eyes fill and spill over again.

“I realised this morning, that I didn’t exactly say the words, and I thought that perhaps they might be important to you.  So—I’m saying them now.  I love you, and It’s alright, John.  It’s more than alright.”

John nods.  He doesn’t know what to say.  His head aches, and his stomach is twisting with hunger, he’s exhausted, and yet Sherlock is looking at him like he is the most precious thing he’s ever seen, and it takes John’s breath away.

“Let’s eat.  We’ll put Rosie down for the night, and then we can watch something festive if you like.”

“Yeah.  That’s sounds—good.  Great actually.  Let’s do that.”

_________________________________

 

John is curled up in Sherlock’s chair with a blanket, and a finger of scotch, just watching the opening credits of  _It’s a Wonderful Life_  when Sherlock finally comes downstairs from putting Rosie to bed.

“She go down okay?”

“Out like a light.”

“Thanks for that.”

“It was nothing.  She wanted to tell me all about her baking adventures with Mrs. Hudson, so it worked out just fine.”

John smiles.  “Come here, okay.”

Sherlock walks over, goes to slip into John’s chair, but John holds out his hand.  “No, come here.”

And so Sherlock does, but he hesitates, suddenly unsure, as he approaches.  John throws a cushion on the floor, between the V of his legs.  “This okay?”

Sherlock nods, comes and sits with his legs crossed under him, and his back pressed against the chair.

John stares down at the top of his head, the tangle of perfect curls.  He thinks of all the times he has repressed the desire to card his fingers through them, and realises that perhaps such a thing might be on offer now that they’re…

He ventures a tentative stroke.  Sherlock’s head immediately tilts back, presses in to the touch.  He strokes his fingers through his hair again and Sherlock’s mouth parts.  John tries not to think about the way the sight makes him feel, the rush of longing, the heat of desire, the overwhelming thirst.

It’s early days yet.  He needs to slow down.  He takes a deep breath.  Releases it slowly and quietly.  “You’re really good with her, you know.”

Sherlock’s eyes slip open.  “Am I?”

“Yeah.  You are.”

“Well, she’s a very well mannered little girl.  She makes it easy.”

John laughs quietly.   “She’s really not.”

“She’s a Watson,” Sherlock says as though that settles it.  “I’m very accustomed and partial to Watsons.”

“So it seems,” John murmurs, and combs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair again.

Sherlock leans his head against John’s knee, and John has to quell the warring feelings of want and anxiety.  Every little touch rushes like fire through his veins.  It’s like the floodgates have been opened, now that he knows his feelings are returned, and he knows he has to reign it in, that just because Sherlock loves him, it doesn’t automatically follow that Sherlock wants him.  Truth be told, despite his body’s betrayal, he hasn’t fully accustomed himself to the idea of where their relationship might go.

“This film, Is it going to be sentimental drivel?”  Sherlock murmurs lazily.

“Mm, probably.”

Sherlock hums, and closes his eyes again.  John keeps stroking his hair, watches as his breathing evens out, and his mouth goes lax.  The weight of his head on John’s knee becomes grounding rather than arousing, and John gazes down at him and wonders how he managed to get so lucky.  

Him, just a poor boy, who made it through med school on nothing but sheer, stubborn determination, who invalided out of the only thing he’d ever been good or felt a success at, and who’s been running from himself for a long as he can remember.  Him.  He’s sitting here in this homely flat, his daughter sleeping safe and sound upstairs, this brilliant, gorgeous, frustrating, miracle of a man sound asleep between his legs.

It’s seems too much.  It seems more than he deserves, but…  It’s his, and he’s not about to waste it.  Not anymore.


	18. Day 18 - Stocking Stuffers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).
> 
> **NOTE:** There is brief mention in this chapter of the morgue scene in TLD. It's somewhat in passing, but does have context in the conversation, so if that is a topic you just can't handle, feel free to skip this chapter.

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 18**

**Prompt: Stocking Stuffers**

 

Sherlock has finally stepped into the shower, and John knows that he has approximately 15 minutes in which make the phone call he needs to make.That is the average amount of time it takes Sherlock to soap down and wash his hair (Monday is always a hair washing day unless he is in one of his moods). 

He waits for the water to turn on, and then dials.

“Hello.”

“Hi Mrs. Holmes, this is John.John Watson.”

“Oh John!Hello.Oh dear, it’s not Sherlock is it?”

“No, no.Sherlock’s fine.He’s—amazing actually.I have a bit of an odd question, and I’m hoping you can help.”He fiddles with the cuff of the Christmas stocking in his hand.

“I most certainly will if I can.”

“See, I’m trying to come up with some things to get him for Christmas.And I’m stuck when it comes to his stocking.So, I was wondering, was there anything really special he liked as a child?A kind of sweet, or toy, or trinket?”

“Oh, I’ll have to think on that...He was always rather down on Christmas.Got that from his older brother, I think.Myc told him that Father Christmas was a fiction when he was three years old.It devastated him.”

“Sherlock?”

“Oh yes.He was a very tender child.”

“Really?”

“Such a sensitive boy.I often wonder if we should have raised him differently.We weren’t quite sure what to do with him, to be quite honest.He seemed so extraordinarily aware of and attuned to everything.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yes.I remember there was this one time, when he was about five years old, we were walking into the village, and we came across a neighbour torching a bee swarm out from under the eaves of his barn.Sherlock screamed and screamed for him to stop, and went into such hysterics we had to go back home again.Took us an hour to get him calmed down, and he always referred to the man as ‘the murderer’ after that, which was terribly awkward at village get togethers, I can assure you.”

John laughs, and Mrs. Holmes joins him for a moment before sobering again.

“But really, I can’t even begin to imagine what life has been like for him.”

“Yeah…”John agrees, but he can’t fathom.Not really.

“But here I am reminiscing, and you want gift ideas…He likes anything ginger.Ginger Nuts.Candied ginger.Chocolate is also a favourite.Don’t get him Turkish Delight.He read about it in _The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe_ when he was four, begged to try it, and instantly declared it ‘an abysmal disappointment’. _”_

John grins crookedly.“Yeah?What else?”

“Mmm…Oh, you can get him rosin for his bow, he can always use that, just make sure to check his case for whatever brand he’s currently using.He won’t use it if you get the wrong one.He always liked things with bees on them.Scott kept bees for several years, when Sherlock was a boy, and I rather think he considered them his friends.”

“I have noticed that.”

“Yes, and he likes a chocolate orange in the toe.Always a chocolate orange.He’ll be very disappointed if you give him a satsuma instead.Oh, and some little puzzle, though I suppose he doesn’t find most of them all that challenging anymore.But he does like a good puzzle box.”

“This is really helpful, thanks.”

“Anytime.And John—thank you.It’s nice for him to have someone.He needs someone.”

John wonders if she’s been talking to Mr. Holmes, and just how much he told her, when the door to the loo suddenly flies open, and Sherlock emerges, shouting into his phone, pyjamas hastily thrown on, hair still dripping. 

“If they want to close the case then they’re idiots!I’ve told your people ten times that they are looking in the wrong county, and chasing the wrong suspect.Go.To.Cornwall.”

John tracks Sherlock’s progress as he paces back and forth in the kitchen.“Oh, I need to go,”he whispers into the phone.“Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime,” Mrs. Holmes whispers back. 

Sherlock appears in the doorway to the lounge, phone now pocketed.“You were talking to Mummy, just now.Why?”

John rolls his eyes toward the ceiling and sighs.“Can’t a bloke have secrets?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow.“You were conspiring.”

“Yeah, okay.I...Listen, it’s about something nice, I promise.Just needed a little outside input.”

“Nonsense.You know me better than Mummy.”

John huffs out a laugh.“Seriously?Honestly, I don’t think I know you at all.”

“What?”

“I don’t Sherlock.I don’t.You rarely talk about your life before we met, you rarely talk about yourself at all.You’re all ‘conceal don’t feel’ most of the time.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t quote that abysmal film.It’s bad enough with Rosie singing…”

“What?”

Sherlock pouts and stares down at the floor.“Nothing.”

“I _don’t_ know you, Sherlock.You hide from me.And yeah, sure, I’ve probably done the same to you, trying to get better at that, but you have the advantage because you can look at me and read me like a book, so—yeah, sorry, I needed your Mum’s input to help me figure out what to put in your Christmas stocking.Wanted it to be a nice surprise, but I guess I can’t even manage that.”

“You’re filling my stocking?”

“Was going to, yeah.”

Sherlock is silent, standing in his bare feet, dripping on the lounge carpet and blinking.It stretches out to the point where John isn’t sure if he’s just processing, or if he’s hurt, or surprised, and wanting John to say something.

John sets down the stockings and his phone on the desk, and walks over to where Sherlock is standing by his chair.“Hey?Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks once, twice, and then looks down at him.

John smiles.“There you are.I’m not angry, okay.Guess I sounded it.Sorry.I’m not angry, I’m just frustrated.I always feel one step behind when it comes to who knows whom.You look at me, and it’s all laid out like a map.I look at you and all I see is an unsolvable mystery.And I hate that.Feels like—feels like I’m letting you down.”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“You know I do.You know I have.Wish I was better at this stuff, Sherlock, but I’m not, and you—you deserve the best.”

Sherlock’s eyes suddenly look suspiciously full.“I don’t know what I deserve, John.Sometimes I think it’s very little.But I know what want.”

“Yeah?What’s that then?”

“You.”

It wasn’t at all what John was expecting.It hits him like a punch to the gut.He swallows tight and looks away.“You deserve better.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you deserve a bloke who doesn’t need to call your bloody mum just to know what to put in your stocking.It means you deserve a bloke who can…”

“What?Read my mind?”

John is stopped short.

“John, if that is the sort of standard you are setting for yourself, then may I very kindly suggest that you are never going to meet it.I don’t deserve a man who can read my mind, because such a man doesn’t exist.I don’t want such an anomaly.I want you. 

“And you’re right.I don’t tell you things.It’s very—difficult for me.I will endeavour to do better.”

“Yeah?Well—I’d like that.”

“Did mummy tell you about the chocolate orange?”

John grins.“She did.”

“Good.”

“And did she tell you I like puzzles?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s nonsense.I hate them.”

John chuckles.“That so?”

“It is.”

“What would you prefer instead, then?”

“More chocolate.”

John laughs.“That I can do.”

Sherlock chuckles, and then sobers.“Did she tell you anything else?”And there is something tentative in it, small and worried.

“She told me you were a remarkable child.”

“In what way?”

“She told me about the neighbour and the bees.”John grins.“How you used to call him a murderer.”

Sherlock frowns.“I was a small child.”

“It was quite the story.I liked it, liked learning that about you.”

“You did?”Sherlock sounds truly shocked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“You can be honest with me, you know.You can tell me things.”

Sherlock looks up.He doesn’t look at all convinced, thought there is something—something that almost looks like hope, too.

“You can,” John reassures.

“I’m not entirely sure you would like the real me.I’ve worked very hard to be what you like and need, John.I would rather it not start…”

“Start what?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath.“Unravelling so soon.”

John swallows dryly.“What?”

“Oh, you know…”

“I don’t, actually.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Sherlock, you know I’m staying, right.”

“I know you want to, you intend to—right now.”

“Hey.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up.

“I’m staying, you idiot.I’ve wanted this forever, since that first year, and that bloody thing at the pool, maybe since that first night.I’ve wanted you.I wanted us to be—an ‘us’.”

“Yes, well…I have a way of disappointing people.”

“Yeah, I know.You’ve disappointed me, plenty.”Sherlock visibly shrinks, and John rushes to finish.“But not because the real you is something small, and boring, and insignificant.Because the real you is locked up so tight I’ve only, ever been granted fleeting glimpses of it.And you know what?So far I love the little I’ve seen.”

“You will forgive me, but I find that very hard to believe.”

“Yeah?Why?”

“Your entire attraction to me began because of what I had on offer when we met—an escape from the mundane, a way to diffuse your itch for adventure and violence in a controlled and positive way.I gave you a means by which to feel useful and needed, despite your brokenness.But for a very long time, I have only made you feel worse about yourself.That is not sustainable, and there is no reason to believe that it won’t continue if I continue to let you down in those very key ways.”

“You my therapist now?”John has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek, and ball his fists tight to keep from saying and doing more.

“No John.I’m me.”

They stand in silence, observing one another.It feels like an impasse.

John takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, tries to calm the thundering of his blood in his veins, to will the rush of adrenaline to subside.He lets his eyes slide shut.When he opens them again, Sherlock is staring at the floor.

“You’re right.You are right, Sherlock.Those are things you gave me when I needed them most.You saved me.I know I wouldn’t be here today if you hadn’t found me when you did.And you almost killed me, too—when you left, no matter the reason.

“But, as for you making me feel worse about myself, that wasn’t you.Don’t you dare put that on yourself.That was me.That was all me—running from myself for as long as I can remember.All you did was force me to look at myself.It wasn’t you making me feel worse about myself.It was me already hating myself and just finally having to face that.

“I love you.I’ve loved you since the start, and nothing could ever seem to change that, not you being an insensitive git, not you refusing my help, not you leaving, not you coming back, and making a joke out of the whole affair, not you not wanting me anymore when you did, not even—not even my marriage.”

“Wait.Why would you think that?”

“What?”

“When you said I didn’t want you anymore when I came back…Why would think that?”

John huffs.“You practically planned my damn wedding.Could barely tear you away for a case.I just assumed you were trying to get rid of me.”

“I wanted you to be happy.”

“What?”

“I’d botched the night in the restaurant so horribly, because I—I didn’t know, I didn’t realise that my leaving would affect you so much.I wanted to make it up to you.I wanted you to have what I had never managed to give you.I wanted you to have what you deserved.”

“A lying, murdering assassin for a wife?!”

“Well, I hardly knew that then, did I.Besides, I thought you rather fond of her skill set.It was part of her charm.”

“She shot you,” John grinds out.“She nearly killed you.”

“And you went back to her.”

“BECAUSE YOU TOLD ME TO!”

“Woo hoo…”Mrs. Hudson’s voice drifts up from the foyer. 

“Go away, Mrs. Hudson!”Sherlock thunders.

“I realise this is all rather new, and a domestic or two is bound to happen, but there is a little one down here who can hear you, so perhaps you both could keep it down just a touch.”

John rubs a hand across his face.“Shit.”

Sherlock walks out to the landing.“Quite right.Apologies.”

“Well, good.”

When Sherlock returns, he draws close, while still keeping a little distance between them.“I don’t want to argue.”

“Yeah?Well, that makes two of us.”

“Thank you for wanting to fill my stocking.No one has done that since I was a boy.It was thoughtful.”

John nods.“Why _did_ you tell me to go back to her, to trust her?For months I thought you had some sort of plan, but then you never said, and then Rosie was here, and—I just had to carry on, life as usual, like none of it had ever happened.Thought I could make the best of it, but…Well, you know how that turned out.”

“She was my friend.”

“Sherlock.She shot you.” 

Sherlock just stares at him blankly, and John realises with a sickening jolt of pain, that it doesn’t matter to Sherlock.For whatever reason, he thinks it’s normal ( _all he deserves?_ ).He rubs two fingers over his eyebrows and tries to quell the sudden rush of nausea.“And I—beat you to a bloody pulp on the floor of a morgue, put you in the h-hospital, and yet—here you are.”

“John, that’s not…”

“You know, for a genius, you are a bloody poor judge of character.”

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut, and he suddenly looks very young and very lost.

John can’t take it anymore.“Come here.”

Sherlock comes, and John wraps his arms around him.“You know, for someone who can be so blindingly arrogant, you really need to learn to love yourself more.”

Sherlock’s arms sneak up to tentatively wrap around him in return.“Pot, kettle, black.”

John huffs a laugh into Sherlock’s shoulder.“Touche.”

Sherlock chuckles, and John holds on a little tighter.


	19. Day 19 - Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).
> 
> **Note:** There is brief mention of John hunting deer with his father as a boy. If this topic is upsetting to you, please be warned.

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 19**

**Prompt: Intimacy**

 

Mrs. Hudson is playing Bridge with Mrs. Turner.Rosie has decided to go to sleep early (wonders never cease!), and the flat is blissfully quiet when Sherlock descends the stairs from the third floor. 

John never goes back to the Acton flat anymore.He’s all but moved in.It hasn’t escaped Sherlock’s notice how he brings a few more clothes and personal items for both himself and Rosie every time he comes home from the clinic, or over on the weekends.There is a comfort to it, like John is slowly migrating back into his rightful place.

At the moment he is seated on the sofa, reading the day’s paper.He looks up as Sherlock enters the lounge.“You better be careful, she’s going to get used to you putting her down.She’ll start asking for you every night.”

“It’s fine.I enjoy our little conversations.”

John grins.“Oh yeah?What do you two talk about, then?”

“Oh you know…”

John folds up the paper and sets it down on the coffee table.“You want a drink?”

“There is a rather excellent bottle of wine my brother brought over a few months ago.Do you still like Merlot?”

“Mm, sounds perfect.I’ll get it.You sit.”

Sherlock does sit, because it’s apparent John has plans.If he’s introducing alcohol into the mix, then there is the possibility that said plans either involve increased emotional intimacy (which given the topic of their row and consequent discussion the day before is a possibility), or an evolution in their physical intimacy (less likely, but still…).

John reappears with two empty glasses in one hand, and the entire bottle of wine in the other.

_(Or perhaps both…)_

Sherlock’s heart gives a small flutter of anxiety and anticipation as John plops down on the sofa, his knee pressing against the outside of Sherlock’s.He leans forward, pushing aside the paper and Rosie’s toys, and pours them both a glass. 

When he leans back and hands it to him, Sherlock notices that John has undone the topthree buttons of his shirt while in the kitchen.Sherlock’s mouth goes dry.he licks his lips, takes a quick sip of his wine, and has to force himself not to stare.

“This is nice.”

“Yes.”He cringes.He sounds stilted and nervous, even to his own ears.Absolutely ludicrous.It’s because John has suddenly decided to take control of things.Unexpected, but—not unwanted.An involuntary shiver passes through him, and John turns to look.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

John sighs, and leans back, stretches a little and lets his arm settle behind Sherlock on the back of the sofa.All Sherlock would need to do, would be to lean back, and his head could be resting on John’s arm.If he closed his eyes, he could almost convince his brain he was sleeping in John’s arms.He could commit it to memory so that he could draw up a detailed facsimile whenever he desired.

He leans back.John’s arm is warm through the cotton of his shirt.He feels him flex his muscles a little beneath Sherlock’s neck (for his benefit?).It’s breathtaking to feel John’s body move beneath his in such a way.

“This is good wine.”

“Mycroft is endlessly pretentious when it comes to wine.He believes he’s one-upping me when he gives me a bottle as a gift, when in reality I couldn’t care less.”

John chuckles and takes another sip.“So…I was thinking about my conversation with your mum yesterday.”

_Oh.Lovely…_

“Why?”Sherlock doesn’t even try to hide the distaste in his voice.Talking about his mother is not how was hoping this evening would go.

“Don’t get like that,” John laughs.“I was thinking about it because it made me realise that I don’t know much about you, and you don’t know much about me either.I mean, I’m sure you’ve deduced loads, but—I’ve never told you.So, I thought—it might be nice to start getting to know one another a little better.Tit-for-tat.I ask something, you ask something.  You can refuse to answer, of course, but if you do choose to answer, it has to be completely honest.”

Sherlock sits up, and wiggles back in his seat.“You mean, I could ask you anything?”

John grins.“Thought that might pique your interest.You wanna go first since your mum already spilled all kinds of secrets about you?”

“You said she just told you the thing about the bees.”

“And she called you ‘a very tender child’.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Oh, so you weren’t a tender child?”

“I most certainly was not.”

“What about the bees.”

“In retrospect, I was very wise to be upset.The Murderer was contributing to their future extinction.”

John laughs fondly.“I love you.Now go on, ask me something.”

Sherlock thinks.It’s like offering a starving man a buffet.However will he choose?He should start off with something fairly innocuous.It wouldn’t do to make John uncomfortable, and less amenable to sharing.

“What was your happiest childhood memory?”

John nearly spits out the wine he’s just taken a sip of.He swallows, coughs vigorously, and then sputters.“Are you serious?”

“I’m perfectly serious.”

“It’s so mundane?”

_Error.Too safe.Won’t happen again.Still—perhaps honesty is the best policy._

“I wanted to start slowly.I wanted you to be comfortable.”

John lowers the glass he was just lifting to his lips.“Oh.Right.That’s—really thoughtful, actually.Thanks. Might take me a minute to think of something, though…”

“It’s fine.Take your time.”

The snow from earlier in the week has melted, and the rain that has started to slowly tap against the windows of the lounge will likely wash away any residual.Sherlock feels some of the tension leave his body.He takes another sip of wine, sets the glass back down on the table, and leans back against John’s arm, again.

John instantly flexes.

( _Was for his benefit, then._ )

“Hunting with my dad.”

“Hunting with your dad?”

“Yeah.It was the only thing he ever wanted us to do together.I kind of hated it at first, the hunting aspect itself, you know, but he was convinced it was a necessary part of becoming a man, so off we went.But the nice thing was he was never angry when we were out in the woods.He was always really patient.We harvested one deer per season, and he would teach me to shoot, how to clean an animal, explain the anatomy as we did.In retrospect I sometimes wonder if that’s what got me interested in medicine, and then in joining the army.”

Sherlock considers this, considers John’s small, capable hands taking a life, gutting a carcass.John’s perfect mouth eating the flesh of the animal he has killed.He thinks about John’s soft heart buried beneath layers of stone.He thinks about John doctoring in a war zone, healing, for the most part, rather than taking life.He sees John in a new way.He understands things he had not before. 

“What about you?”

He opens his eyes.“Me?”

“Mm.What was your best childhood memory?”

He doesn’t have to think about it.“Dad reading me stories at night before I went to bed.He did it for years.We never spent a lot of time together.Dad was a quiet man, and somewhat solitary, but he would always read to me.Many nights I would fall asleep while he did.It made me feel—safe, somehow.”

“That why you wanted to start reading to Rosie?”

“I suppose.Back when Mary left, young as Rosie was, I thought it still must be strange and unsettling for her.I thought the stories might help.And she does seem to like them now.”

“Yeah, she does.”John is smiling down at him, eyes soft, tone fond.His wine glass is empty.He pours himself another.Sherlock’s barely finished half of his, but his eyes feel heavy with exhaustion.He didn’t sleep well the night before.It’s catching up with him now.

“You tired?”John’s arm behind him bends, John’s fingertips sink into his hair, suddenly rubbing small circles along his scalp.He lights up, every cell, every nerve. He sits in wonder at how John’s hands, which have harmed and healed, have the power to do the same to him.

“Mmm…”He hums, but it is half moan, and he knows that John has heard it too.He feels John’s fingers pause for the slightest moment, before regaining their previous rhythm.He can’t bring himself to open his eyes.

John is leaning toward him.He feels John’s chest press against his face, and his head goes light.And then suddenly there is a weight on his lap.He opens his eyes and looks down.John has grabbed the blanket from the back of the sofa and deposited it there.

“Wrap up, lay down if you’re tired.We don’t have to talk anymore tonight.”

Sherlock is confused.John has offered him the blanket, but he’s not moving.So he intends to stay on the sofa, to what?Watch Sherlock sleep?And is Sherlock meant to just turn away, curl up on the other side of the sofa, when he could be resting here in the crook of John’s arm?Unthinkable.

“Hey?” 

He looks up at John looking down at him.“Lay down if you want.I don’t mind.”John pats his lap, and suddenly Sherlock understands.Embarrassingly he feels his cheeks heat.John frowns a little.“Or not.Whatever you want, okay.”

John is being so careful with him.It’s wonderful and horrible all at once.Sherlock sits up, turns, lays down with his head resting on John’s thigh.He spreads the blanket over himself and blinks up at John, who smiles down at him like he’s some sort of miracle.

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

John leans forward momentarily, to set his wine glass on the coffee table, and Sherlock’s face is pressed against his ribs.It is sensory heaven—the hard unyielding curve of his ribcage, the softness of his diaphragm, the intoxicating scent of him, even through so many layers of clothing.Sherlock wills his mind to still, to not offer up the hundreds of scenarios he has locked away in a very special closet, in a very special room in his mind palace.It is all over in a matter of seconds but Sherlock’s mind is still reeling, categorising, storing: sensation, scent, biological responses.

John’s fingers return to his scalp, begin to card through his hair just as they had the night the two of them sat by the fire, and watched that ridiculous Christmas film.And just like that night, Sherlock feels himself start to drift almost instantly.

“You’re like a dog.”

Sherlock’s eyes pop open.“What?”

“Start to pet you, and you’re asleep in no time.” John grins.

“Oh.”

Sherlock closes his eyes again.John is too beautiful, and he has enough sensory input to contend with.His brain is whiting out completely.

“I love you,” John says.He still sounds slightly awed at the fact that he’s allowed to say it.Sherlock likes that, the newness of it.It is, he supposes, what people refer to as the ‘honeymoon phase’ of their new arrangement.It will mellow over time into something more grounded, but at the moment it is effervescent, and joyful, and the thrill of it is something he wants to ride for as long as possible.

John’s thumb strokes across his forehead, and he melts.He knows John feels it.He feels his abdomen tighten against his cheek, and thrills as John chooses to continue.The rhythmic sweep of John’s thumb is almost hypnotic.He sinks deeper, and deeper, and the last thing he registers (or thinks he does), as he drifts off completely, is John’s whisper, low, and brimming with emotion.“You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”


	20. Day 20 - Hot Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).
> 
> **Additional Author's Note:** John fondly and drunkenly gropes Sherlock's thigh in public a couple of times in this chapter, which some people might read as mildly dubious consent, so do what's best for you.

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 20**

**Prompt: Hot Chocolate**

 

The pub is bursting, bustling, a veritable sensory onslaught, but John had asked Sherlock to come, and it meant something to John, he could tell, for the two of them to accept Greg’s invitation for a night out with a small handful of people from the Met.Dimmock would be there, Sally, Hopkins, Phelps, and that practically brainless new detective whose name he can’t recall.Also, Molly, oddly enough.He’d confirmed with Greg that Ted would not be there.Best to head that potential disaster off at the pass.

But now here they all are, and the alcohol is flowing rather heavily, with he and Sally being the only two relatively sober ones left.Him because he hates being drunk in public, and Sally, because she’s volunteered as designated driver and is a bit of a teetotaller anyway (due to an alcoholic mother she desperately doesn’t want to emulate).

They’ve only been out an hour, and John is already four beers and three shots in.He’s far too drunk for his own good.Sherlock stays close.John gets chatty when he’s drunk.Too soft.Too open.And he says things he might later wish he hadn’t in present company.If Sherlock has to save him from himself he will.

“How’s the move?”Greg asks lazily from the other side of the table.“Flat sold?”

“Move?What move?”Dimmock pipes in.

“Seems John’s giving up the bachelor life, and moving back where he belongs,” Greg explains.

“Widower’s life,” Molly murmurs, but it’s so quiet Sherlock’s certain no one but he heard it in the din of the pub.

“Rather getting started in on that bachelor life, I’d warrant?”Detective What’s-his-name guffaws, and drains the rest of his beer.

John seems blissfully unaware of the innuendo.

Sherlock glares at What’s-his-name for good measure.

“Tha’s right,” John offers.“Back at Baker Shtreet.With Sherl.”He leans over and rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment, and it’s all Sherlock can manage to not gaze down at him with all the fondness welling up inside him, but for John’s sake he controls himself.

“To new beginnings with old friends!”Greg raises a glass and everyone chimes in with the toast. 

John beams.

“This calls for something special!” Hopkins announces, slapping her palms on the tabletop.She stands up and sets off toward the bar.

Sherlock tracks her progress with his eyes.She has to squeeze between throngs of people, ward off unwanted advances.It’s a bit of a jungle.Sherlock takes a deep breath, and excuses himself to the loo, retraces her steps and when he’s sure John isn’t looking, slides up next to her at the bar.

“Whatever it is you’re ordering, make sure John’s is virgin.”

Hopkins glances over at him and grins.“Don’t worry.Don’t worry.I’ve got your boy.No more alcohol for him.”

“Thank you.”

Hopkins turns and leans against the bar, staring back toward their table as she waits for their drinks.“Who’s the mouse?”

“Hmm?”

“The quiet, pretty one in the outstanding jumper.”

“Oh.Molly Hooper.She works at Barts morgue.I’m not sure why she’s here, to be honest.”

“Greg invited her.You think he’s interested?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Damn.Well, he better hop to it.”

The drinks arrive arranged neatly on a large tray; spiked hot chocolate in hideously tacky mugs.“One with the handle turned out is straight,” the bartender drawls, sounding like he hates his job just as much as he does his wife.

Sherlock offers to ease Hopkins’ passage back to the table.There’s something intimidating about him, people move out of his way on instinct when he holds himself a certain way, walks with purpose, sets his mouth and brow just so.

John looks over-the-moon to see him, when he arrives at the table.“Where’d you go?”

“Loo.And helping Hopkins with the drinks.”

“Come back over here.”He taps the bench beside him. 

Sherlock scoops up John’s hot chocolate, and one for himself and does as bade.

Sherlock has just lifted the mug to his lips for a sip, when John leans on him again, hand straying to his upper thigh under the table.“Missed you.”He squeezes, and Sherlock nearly chokes on his cocoa.John huffs a soft laugh, and takes his hand away, wraps it around Sherlock’s shoulders instead.

The whole table is starting to notice now, and Sherlock wonders if he should just pack things in and take John home.

“There’ss sssomethink we shhould tell all uf you,” John slurs.

_Oh.Oh no…_

“Mm, perhaps another time, John.”Sherlock thinks his cheeks must be as crimson as Dimmock’s jumper.

“Sherluck and me are getting murried.”

Sherlock blinks.

Everyone at the table stares.

Clearly no one has any idea what is going on—Sherlock included.

“Congratulations,” Molly finally says quietly from her end of the table.She doesn’t sound at all happy.

“That’s not exactly…That’s not been decided,” Sherlock hurries to explain.“We’re just —family, at the moment.”

“But you’re _together_?”Greg sounds rather happy about the prospect.

“Yes.We--have an understanding.”

The table erupts.There are slaps on the back, and congratulations.It’s all more than a bit much.In all the din, Sherlock sees Hopkins get up and go to sit beside Molly.She leans over and whispers something in her ear that makes her smile, misty-eyed, and then giggle.Sherlock is grateful.

John likely won’t remember any of this tomorrow, but everyone at the table will, and Sherlock wonders how he should handle the situation.For now, they need to go home.He gets to his feet.“Well, it’s been—an experience.Merry Christmas.I believe it’s time we made our way home.”

“You want a ride?”Sally offers.“I can have you two home in about five minutes, and come back for the rest of this drunken lot.They’ll be here hours yet.”

Sherlock considers turning her down, but it’s so close to Christmas, that even he’s having difficult haling cabs in the holiday rush.He doesn’t relish standing out in the rain.“That would be very kind.Thank you.”

_________________________________________

 

John is just as handsy in the back seat of Sally’s car as he was in the pub, and Sherlock has to discreetly remove his hand from his thigh twice before they even leave the car park.

Sally catches his eye in the rear view mirror.“You mind he doesn’t vomit in my car.You two will be cleaning it up, if he does.”

“He won’t.”

There’s actually a fairly good chance he will.John’s hangovers are rather memorable, and the alcohol is just beginning to wear off.

“It’s about time with you two.Thought you’d never get yourselves figured out.”Sally pulls out into traffic.“Listen, I know you and I’ve not always been—on the best of terms.But, I’m happy for you, both of you, and I hope you’ll be really happy together.You deserve it after everything…”

Sherlock is unexpectedly touched.Perhaps it is the little bit of alcohol in his system, or the warmth of John’s face pressed against his neck, or maybe it is just the rather irritating veil of sentimentality that seems to hang over everything at this time of year, but he feels his eyes prick.“Thank you.” 

Traffic is heavy, but it still doesn’t take them very long to get back to Baker Street.John is dozing, and Sherlock has to wake him, and then physically extract him from Sally’s car, which causes him to giggle in a way that makes the roots of Sherlock’s hair tingle, and his heart feel like it’s too big for his chest.

Sally rolls down her window.“You want help?”

“No it’s—“

Just then John sways a little, lurches forward and vomits all over the pavement, barely missing Sherlock’s shoes.

“Ah, lovely…”Sally grimaces and then grins crookedly.“You have fun with that.”And with a wink she pulls away from the kerb.

John looks pale, and there is a fine sheen of sweat over his face, despite the cold.He stumbles a little and almost steps in his own vomit, but Sherlock reaches out and catches him by the arm, steering him toward the front door instead.“You’re too old to keep drinking like you did in uni.”

“Oi.”John tries to sound affronted, but the protest is half-hearted.He knows he’s overdone it.He’s miserable.

They make it in the front door, but the stairs may be another thing altogether.Sherlock deposits John on the third stair, and goes to tell Mrs. Hudson they’re home.Rosie is asleep in her flat for the night, which is most likely for the best.

When Sherlock returns to the stairs, John is slumped against the wall snoring quietly.He looks down at him, and thinks of the night well over two years ago, when he and John had collapsed happily in the exact same spot, bodies gravitating naturally toward one another in their mutual state of vulnerability.

He loves John so much he thinks it might break him.It nearly has, so many times.It may still.John stirs a little.“Sher…”

Sherlock smiles fondly.“Are you getting up, or am I carrying you?”

“Hmm…Getting up.”John promptly falls back asleep.

“I see.”Sherlock leans down, and scoops John into his arms.He’s remarkably light.He’s lost too much weight the last few years, with grief, and stress, and too many sleepless nights filled with alcohol and inadequate meals.Sherlock makes a mental note to discreetly gauge his alcohol intake, to make sure he eats, sleeps.John has done the same for him for so many years, it’s only fair.

“Whasha doin?”John blinks up at him, and then down at the stairs disappearing below him, and then back at Sherlock’s face.

“I’m putting you to bed.You’re ridiculous.You’re going to rue your choice to even go out tonight, when you wake up tomorrow.I told you you would.”

John nods like he’s considering this.“Did I kiss you?”

They reach the top of the stairs, and Sherlock decides he’s not up for another two flights.He walks towards his room instead.“No you did not, though you groped me more times than I can count, and you told everyone at the Met that we are betrothed.”

“Was’s that?”

“Engaged to be married.”

“We are?”

“No.”

“You wanna?”

“Ask me again when you’re sober.”

He lays John carefully down on the bed, and begins unlacing his shoes.“Though, I imagine you’ll forget all of this tomorrow.”

“Mmm…”John wiggles his toes, and pushes his socked feet into the palms of Sherlock’s hands.“Ur warm.Come here.”

“I don’t think so.Do you want your socks on or off for sleeping.”

“Don care.”

Sherlock decides to leave them on.It’s cold.“Sit up.I need to take your coat and jumper off.”

John manages it after one false start.He sways a little as Sherlock divests him of his coat, pulls his jumper off over his head.“I would.”

“Mmm?”Sherlock loosens the top button of John’s shirt, removes his belt.

“Murry you.”

Something aches deep in the centre of Sherlock’s chest.He swallows it down and pulls the tails of John’s shirt loose from the waistband of his trousers.“Up.Stand up.I need to turn the bed down.”

He has to help John up, in the end, and John practically falls into him, head resting over his heart, arms slung around his waist.“Christ, I love you…”Sherlock can feel a wetness soaking through the cotton of his shirt.John is not usually a crier when drunk.This is new.

“I know.I love you too.Now into bed.”He takes John by the shoulders, and guides him down slowly, lifts his feet up after him, pulls the blankets up and tucks them snuggly around him.

When he pulls back to observe his work, John is still staring up at him, eyes full, spilling over, only to fill again.“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Everything.”

“It’s alright.It’s alright now.It’s over.You’re home.”

“Stay.”

“I don’t think that would be wise.”

Fresh tears spill out to disappear into the damp, tousled hair at John’s temples.“Pleas…I don’t wanna be alone.”He sounds terribly small, and horribly afraid, and Sherlock can’t say no in the face of that.

“Alright.”He strips off his coat, and jacket, lays them over John’s on the chair by the wardrobe, and then fishes a blanket out of the bottom drawer, shuts off the lamp on John’s side of the bed, and turns on his, before climbing on top of the covers and pulling the blanket over himself.

John is staring at the ceiling, eyes drifting closed, now and again.The tears show no signs of stopping. 

“You should sleep.You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I should have stayed.”

“Mmm…”

“When you told me to go.”

“When?”

“When they called about Mss. Hudsn.”

Sherlock suddenly realises what John is referring to.“No.It was specifically designed to trick you into leaving.I—I didn’t know what would happen, and I didn’t want you to see.But you being you—you came back.

“You mustn’t blame yourself.If you want to blame someone, blame me, blame my brother, but don’t ever blame yourself.You were everything…”Sherlock’s voice catches.“You were everything I could have dreamed, could have hoped for.You still are.You did nothing wrong.”

“I missed you every day.”

“I missed you too…But, I imagine it was easier for me.I knew you were alive, here in London under my brother’s watchful eye.I missed you horribly, but at least I knew you were safe and sound.”

“Wasn’t”

“Mmm?”

“Wasn’t safe and sound.Not without you.Not for a long time.”

“I know.I’m sorry.”

“You promise me.Promiss me you’ll stay.”

“Always.You have my word.”

“I can’t do it again—without you.”

“I know.You won’t have to.”

John sniffs loudly.

“Go to sleep, John.”

“ok.”

He’s asleep in seconds, snoring loudly.And Sherlock finds even that endearing, which should probably concern him, but he’s too tired to chastise himself. 

Tomorrow will be difficult.He needs to tell John what transpired, but how to do so without it being horribly awkward is a challenge he’s not sure he’s up for.

John lets out a particularly loud snore, coughs and rolls over, facing Sherlock.He’s on his bad shoulder, and he won’t be able to move it come morning, if he stays that way.Sherlock reaches out and carefully eases him over onto his back again, and then over onto his other side.Safer if he vomits again.

John curls into the feotal position, and Sherlock traces the curve of his spine with his eyes.John can seem so larger than life.He can fill a room with his seeming confidence, and courage, and fierce desire to protect, so much so that one can forget that there are other times, times like tonight, when he seems to shrink, to become something so unfathomably small, that it makes Sherlock’s heart physically ache.He aches to protect, aches to somehow fill all the empty places where love should be, to fill him out, and fill him up, until he is John Watson once more: brave, and beautiful and sure.

He reaches out and smooths a hand over John’s head, before tucking it back beneath his own chin.He meant what he’d said.He is staying.And John will never, for as long as he still draws breath, have do without him again.

 _‘Yours’_ , something in Sherlock’s soul whispers.‘ _Forever yours.’_


	21. Day 21 - Doctor's Orders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 21**

**Prompt: Doctor’s Orders**

Sherlock wakes to the sound of John disoriented and stumbling to the loo at three in the morning.The vomiting starts immediately.Sherlock gets up.  
****

“Why are you in here?”John moans, voice echoing in the toilet bowl, as Sherlock walks in and opens the medicine cabinet.

“Because you need to take something for your headache, and drink some water.Doctor’s orders.”Sherlock fills the glass by the sink.

“I’m the bloody doctor.”

“Then heal thyself.”He hands him the glass and a couple of Paracetamol, and John winces up at him.

“Why was I in your room?”

“Because I had already carried you up two flights of stairs from the foyer, and I didn’t fancy carrying you up another two.”

“Where’s Rosie?”

“Sleeping at Mrs. Hudson’s.”

“Why were you in bed with me?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.“Because you asked me to stay.You were asleep in less than a minute.”

John obediently swallows the tablets and then slumps against the toilet bowl again.“It was the shots.There were shots weren’t there?”

“Yes.You were three and a half beers in when you decided to do shots with Hopkins.”

“Shit…”John’s head pops up.“I didn’t say anything embarrassing did I?”

“I wouldn’t categorise it as such…Perhaps get back into bed?”

“Yeah…”

John hoists himself up from the floor with some difficulty, and then leans a hand against the toilet for a minute to steady himself.“Never let me drink that much again.”

“I’m going to remind you that you said that.”

“Please do.”

John stumbles out the door, and then turns and heads down the hall.Sherlock hurries after.“Where are you going?”

“To bed.”

“Oh.”‘ _You can stay here.Please.Please stay here_ ,’ remains unsaid.

“Thanks,” John forces a smile.“Thanks for getting me home okay.”

 “Of course.”

"‘Night.”

“Good-night, John.”

______________________________

 

Sherlock doesn’t go back to sleep.There is too much swirling around in his mind, and his senses are too attuned to John.His ears prick for any sound from upstairs, his heart aches, he worries, and worries, and worries how he will tell John all that needs saying about the night before.

At 7:00 he goes down to see Mrs. Hudson.She has his tea ready, and was just getting ready to bring it up.Rosie is just starting to stir.He gets her up, feeds her breakfast, drinks his tea, and listens to Mrs. Hudson go on and on about heaven knows what.It’s better than the echoing loneliness of the flat, though, and so he stays and humours her, and is grateful when she offers to watch Rosie until John is up and feeling a little more himself.

At 9:00 Sherlock goes back up to their flat.He fetches more pain killers and water, and quietly mounts the stairs to the third floor.He knocks softly at John’s door, and when he gets no response, slowly pushes it open.John is curled on his bad side again, facing away from the door.

“John…” 

No response.He can hear him breathing, it calms him a little, as he sets the water and medicine down on the nightstand, and then walks back around the bed and sits down carefully on the edge of the mattress.“John?”

A soft moan emanates from John’s pillow.

Sherlock smiles, leans down, and reaches out to smooth a hand over his head.“I’ve brought you more Paracetamol.”

To his great surprise (and delight), John rolls over and presses in to his touch, eyes shut, and a soft smile on his lips.Finally his eyelids flutter open.“Hi.”

“Hello.How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a lorry.”

Sherlock chuckles softly.“Take your medicine.”He nods to the tablets and water. 

John barely manages before flopping back on the pillow with a wince.“Christ, I’m getting old.”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

John squints up at him.“Thanks again.Sorry about earlier.I was just—embarrassed, I guess.Should know better than to get that pissed at my age.”

“I am quite sure that nearly every member of our little party last night is nursing a similarly violent hangover this morning.You are by no means alone.”

“Yeah?Well—still…Rosie still with Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes, we really do owe her a holiday somewhere warm after all of this.She’s gone above and beyond!”

“She really has.” 

John stares down at the blanket on the bed between them.“You want to stay for awhile?”

Sherlock nods.“Yes, if you’d like.”

“I would.Here, stand up.”

Sherlock does, and John peels back the covers and pats the mattress beside him.“Cold up here.”

It takes a moment for the reality of what John is offering to reach him, but when it does, Sherlock doesn’t waste a moment. He lets his dressing gown drop to the floor, and climbs under the covers gladly. 

“It _is_ cold, which makes no sense as your room is at the top of the house.Improperly sealed windows, I suspect.Mrs. Hudson is rarely up here, and I must admit I haven’t been, myself, in quite some time.It’s something I’m sure could be remedied.Was it always this cold?When you slept here before, I mean.I don’t remember you ever complaining.I imagine you would have…” 

“You’re babbling.”John is grinning.

“Oh.”

“Better now?Warmer, I mean?”

“Mm.”

Sherlock melts into the cocoon of warmth John’s body has created, keeping a respectful distance.

“I might fall back asleep.”

“I know.”

“Feels better with you here.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock smiles.“Good.”

John is just looking at him.The look is new.It’s fond with the usual undercurrent of barely suppressed desire, but there is something indefinable in it, too.

Sherlock takes a deep breath.“John, about last night.At the pub, something happened.You were very drunk, you understand…”

The look vanishes from John’s eyes, and his brow wrinkles.“Christ, what did I do?”

“Groped my thigh several times, for one.”

John’s cheeks flush instantly, and Sherlock berates himself for how absolutely charming he finds it. 

John grins sheepishly.“Sorry.”

“It’s—fine.I didn’t really mind.”

John nods.He looks thoughtful, as though storing the information away for future reference.Sherlock desperately hopes he is.Finally his eyes return to Sherlock’s.“What else?”

“Well—you were very.You…”

John looks horrified at Sherlock’s hesitance.“Oh Christ, what did I do?!”

“You may have told all present that…”

“Sherlock, just say it!”

“You told them we were getting married.”

John stares at him blankly for a moment, before something that almost looks like fear shadows his eyes.John barks out a laugh, before clutching his head in pain.“Very funny.Really, though, what did I say?”

Sherlock’s chest goes tight. 

_Oh._

“You said: ’There’s something we should tell you all.Sherlock and I are getting married.’”

John’s face seems stuck in some deranged expression that’s half grin, half grimace.Sherlock looks down at their hands lying side-by-side on the mattress, close enough for their pinkies to touch.

“You’re serious.”It’s not a question.John sounds mortified.

Sherlock swallows tightly and nods once without looking up.

“Did you—say anything?”

He nods.“I told them nothing like that had been decided, that we are referring to one another as family.Greg asked if were together.I said we have an understanding.They all seemed rather—congratulatory.”

“They did?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

It’s totally quiet in the room.After a few minutes the radiator clanks to life.A car honks out on the street.John’s pinky slides the short distance over the sheets and hooks over his.He looks up in surprise.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Why?”

“That was a sodding horrible position for me to put you in.”

“It was, rather.”

“Won’t happen again.”

“Thank you.”

“But—they were really okay with it?”

“Of course.I believe some people at the Met even had bets.Someone walked away several pounds richer last night, I’d wager.Sally extended her sincere well wishes, which was—unexpected.”

“Sally?!”

“Yes.”

“Huh…Wow.”

“Did you really think they would mind?”

“I—I don’t know what I thought.I thought it would be—more difficult, I guess.”

“Mm…”

They fall silent again.It’s not the sort of comfortable silence Sherlock is accustomed to with John.There is tension in it, strung tight and vibrating with unspoken things.It feels dishonest.Sherlock is tired of games, silences, half-truths, desperately trying to read between the lines of all the things they never say. 

No more.

“You asked me again when I brought you upstairs.”

“Hm?”

“You asked me if I wanted to marry you.”

“I did?”

“Mm.”

“So…What did you say?”John trying to sound casual, teasing, but failing miserably.

“I told you to ask me again when you were sober.” 

He hears John swallow dryly.He still can’t look up and away from the sight of John’s pinky linked with his.

“Sherlock.Look at me.”

And so he does, because John has _that_ tone.

“Is that something you do?”

“What?”

“Marriage.”

“Are you asking me if I’ve been married?”

“I’m asking you if you have ever, or would ever want to be.”

“To you?”

John’s lips part, his tongue glides slowly out over his bottom lip and disappears again.“To anyone.”

“To anyone?No.”

“So you have no interest in marriage.”

“I have no interest in marriage to just anyone.”

“So then…”

“Yes.”

“If I asked, you might…?”

“Yes.”

John takes a deep breath, holds it a long time before letting it out, and then slides his hand over top of Sherlock’s, meshes their fingers.“You know I love you, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“And you know my marriage was a bit of a disaster.”

“You did your best.”

“Exactly.I did my best, and it still didn’t amount to much.I was unhappy.I—I cheated on her, you know that.I felt trapped, and I don’t ever want to feel that with you.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why were you unhappy?Why did you feel trapped?What more was it you were looking for?”

John’s mouth parts, he sucks in a breath.“That’s not…”

“What?”

“That’s not the point I was trying to make.”

“But you could still answer the question.”

“I don’t know why, Sherlock.I think—I think there’s just something wrong with me.”

“I see.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means—it means I think you know the answer, or at least some of it.I think it means you’re uncomfortable with verbalising it for some reason, or perhaps just countenancing it at all.Besides, if, _IF_ , you were bad at relationships, prone to cheating, restless, it isn’t the marriage itself that did that, John.The piece of paper, the commitment was not the root, it was merely a part of the catalyst.It’s something else, and that’s what you’re not willing to look at.”

Another of John’s fingers loops over his, and then another, until John’s whole hand slides atop his.“You really want this.”He sounds surprised, a little awed.

Sherlock’s instinct is to brush him off, to declare the whole thing ridiculous, but then he has already given away too much of his hand (his heart), and he doesn’t want to pretend anymore.

“I suppose I do.I am as surprised as you are, I assure you.”

“Sherlock, I…”

“No rush.No obligation at all, really.But you asked, and I…”

John’s fingers curl around the side of his palm, and squeeze.“I’m not ready.”

Sherlock nods.He can’t look up.He’s known this, of course. John has things he wants to work on—for himself, to feel safe, comfortable being married again.And that is logical, fair, fine.That is why the suffocating disappointment comes as such a surprise.

“Listen, I’m not saying it hasn’t crossed my mind.The other day in the lounge, with the ring in the cracker…”

Sherlock nods again.

“For a minute I think you thought…And I thought I saw…I thought you wanted it.”

Sherlock can’t bring himself to reply, the whole thing has become mortifying.

John sighs and wiggles a little closer to him on the mattress, tilts his forehead down until it is pressing against the top of Sherlock’s.“That’s when I realised I wanted it to.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up of it’s own volition, and John is so close the tips of their noses brush.

John’s face is soft and painfully fond.“That’s why I decided to see if you might start again.It’s why I’m promising you forever.”

Sherlock’s curses the bite he feels at the corners of his eyes.

“I’m going to ask, okay.  I'd already decided.  Which is where, I guess, the thing at the pub last night came from.  At some point, I’m going to ask, but I’m not ready.There are things I have to do still—for me.To feel like I’m going to be able to be everything you deserve.To feel like—I’m going to be the kind of person I can live with, the kind of person I can be proud of.”

“But you’re staying?”

John’s nose nudges against his.“Yeah, I’m staying.Promise.”

Sherlock doesn’t understand, not fully.If he’s staying, promising, it is the same thing.Sherlock doesn’t understand the logic, he doesn’t understand his own frustration over the matter.He shouldn’t care, not really.He doesn’t, so why…?

John seems to sense the turmoil just under the surface.He squeezes his hand again.His eyes slide shut.He’s digging deep. “When I married her, it was because I was being told I needed to move on—from you.When I married her, it’s because it was what people did, it was what I felt was expected of me, had always been expected of me.Picket fence, wife, dog, 2.5 children.It was a role I was expected to play.That instantly made it a cage, does that make sense.

It does.

It does make sense.

“Yes.”

“This isn’t about me not being committed to you, okay.This is about me needing to purge the association.Give me time.Might be a few months.Might be a year.But it won’t be forever.I just need time to settle into this, into us.I need time to experience and understand what we are, and what we’re becoming, and who I am, and how I fit into that.I need time to just enjoy _this_.”

It is the most open, the most articulate Sherlock has ever heard John be about his feelings.It feels like a miracle and a promise all wrapped into one. “Yes.I understand.”

“Do you?”

“I do.”

John sighs, the tension finally draining from his body.“Come here.”

And then John’s arms are finding their way under and around him, and he his shifting up a little pulling Sherlock close until Sherlock is wholly surrounded, wrapped up in John, his head tucked beneath John’s chin, face pressed against his heart, which he can hear beating through the thin cotton of his vest.

John tangles his fingers in his hair.“I love you.I’ve always loved you.I always will.”


	22. Day 22 - Drunk Lovebirds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 22**

**Prompt: Drunk Lovebirds**

 

John is upside-down.Still beautiful, but upside down.  He is grinning.He is carrying two fabric bags of food.He is wearing the most hideous, itchy jumper.His trousers are new, a little snugger than what he usually wears.Sherlock can see a subtle bulge where the fabric drapes just so.His mouth waters.

“What are you doing down there on the floor?Wait.Is that my good bottle of scotch?”

“Was, your good bottle of scotch. You told me—not to let you get drunk.”

John laughs.“I told you not to ever let me get _that_ drunk.So you what?Drank the whole bottle on your own?”

“It wass almost empty.”

John smiles and shakes his head.“Yeah, I’m sure.Christ knows you can’t hold your alcohol.What’s this about, then, hmm?You want me to join you down there?”

“Yes.Come here.”

“Yeah, okay.Just let me put this food up.”

“Now…”Sherlock is whinging, he knows, but John smells wonderful, like fresh brewed tea, bergamot, and warm cinnamon buns.“You smell of baking.”

“Stopped at the bakery on the way over.Cinnamon rolls for Christmas morning.I’ll freeze them.Just give me a minute to put the food up, you loon.You’ll be horribly stroppy if I let the milk spoil and there’s none for your tea.”

Sherlock hates every second John spends putting up the shopping.When he finally returns and crawls down onto the floor, Sherlock has to close his eyes.His mind is full of a million fantasies, the alcohol making them dance to the surface, unhindered, to set him alight.

“This glass for me?”

“Mm.”

“There’s nothing left in the bottle though.”

“A slight miscalculation on my part.”

John chuckles and Sherlock feels his small hand slip into his larger one.“Hello, you.”

He opens his eyes again.John is laying so that only his head is next to his—still upside down.It’s interesting to look at.Sherlock sees new things, admires the unique landscape of John’s features.“Hello.”

“Nice down here.Bit cold, but I can think of some solutions to that problem.”He winks.

Sherlock has to close his eyes again.He stretches out his socked toes, tries to dissipate some of the heat and tension building.

“You smell of cinnamon.”

“So you said.”

“Did I?”

“Yup.I’ll have to remember you like it.Go have a roll on Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen table next time she’s baking.”

“That is an image I could have done without.”

John snorts.“Filthy mind.”His tone is light, teasing.John is flirting with him. 

Sherlock wishes that he’d thought to throw a blanket over himself, a pillow, anything.He doesn’t have as much control over his body like this.His intention with the scotch had been to get rid of the little that was left, and find a way to dissipate the anxious, twitchy energy that had been gripping him ever since his conversation with John in bed the day before. 

He’d not realised there was quite so much scotch left, and now he’s tipsier than he’d like, and John is being so—John.And his body feels as though it might betray him at any moment.

John’s fingers stir in his hand, slide over his palm, lightly down the inside of his wrist.Sherlock’s breath catches, his body is tingling, aching, reaching out for John, and John keeps doing it, just tracing a finger back and forth along the inside of his wrist, like it isn’t the most intimate, most remarkable thing to ever have happened to Sherlock.

“How drunk are you, hm?”John sounds content, relaxed, almost a little drunk himself.

Sherlock cracks his eyes, lids heavy.“Mm, little bit.”

John chuckles, low and intimate.“Little bit, hm?”

“Yup.”

“Can you open your eyes for a minute.”

Sherlock hadn’t even realised he’d closed them again. 

John appears before him, eyes soft, cheeks slightly pink.“You sober enough to tell me what you think we should do about that?”John’s eyes flick downward as his tongue darts out to moisten his lips.

Sherlock follows his eyes, realising even as he does, that he is more than half hard, and is no doubt on full display beneath his thin trousers.His head goes light as his cheeks flare with embarassment.“Ignore it.”

“Ignore it?”

Sherlock nods.

“Okay.If that’s what you want.But—I think it is something we should talk about eventually.”

“Why?”Sherlock knows why, but he’s floundering, and desperate to find a way to deflect attention from the second visible erection he’s sported in front of John in the last three weeks.He’s not a boy.It’s getting rather out of hand.

John huffs.“Because most people consider that a topic worthy of discussion when they are in a long-term, committed, relationship and I—I’ve been wondering where you stand on it.”

Sherlock rolls over onto his stomach and buries his face in his arms.“Is that what we’re calling this?”

“Here, you sulking?”

“No.”

“That’s probably going to make your situation worse, you know.”

John’s right, lying on his stomach with the floor, hard and unyielding beneath him is just adding to his arousal.

“You want to go take care of it, then?I should probably give Harry a call, make sure everything’s going okay with Rosie.”John sits up.

Sherlock shakes his head.The thought of John leaving the room when he’s just arrived is unbearable.This, THIS is why he doesn’t do relationships.It’s all or nothing.There is no balance, no in between for him. 

He woke up this morning, on the heels of a dream, with the ghost of John’s scent in his nostrils, and his flesh singing with a hunger and need he rarely experiences.He had gone to the shower, done what he had to do to settle his body, but it hadn’t lasted.He’s over forty, and his body is acting like it’s sixteen.It’s sapping every bit of physical and mental energy he has, and if something doesn’t happen soon, he’s afraid his mind and body will tear themselves apart.

“Okay,” John acknowledges.“But If I stay, I think we should talk about it.”

Sherlock feels his cheeks flush all over again.“Boring.”

“Is it, though?”

Sherlock turns his head, and rests it on his folded arms.“What?”

John is looking down at him, fond.Not running away, not getting angry, or irritated, just sitting, staring, eyes fond and patient.“Is it really boring to you?”

“I don’t know.”

John nods.“Fair enough.Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“About what?”

“About us.About—physical stuff.”

“About sex?”

“Maybe.”

Sherlock sighs.“Fine.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, John.Ask your questions.”

“I know you’ve never…”John tilts his head toward Sherlock’s little problem.“With anyone before, but have you wanted to?Have you at least thought about it?”

“Yes.”

“Yes to which?”

“I’ve thought about.”

“But you don’t necessarily want it?”

“Fantasy and reality are two very different things, John.This whole situation is awkward enough…”

“What if it wasn’t awkward.What if it could be—I don’t know…Fun?”

“What do you mean fun?”

“I mean, what if you were having such a good time you forgot to be anxious.”

“I didn’t say I was anxious.”

“But you are.”It’s not a question.John is getting far too observant for his own good.

“Possibly,” Sherlock assents.

“So am I.”

_Oh…_

“You are?”

“Yeah, of course I am.It’s not just that a lot of this is new to me, it’s more than that.It’s that…”John takes a quavering breath.“You mean the world to me, everything to me, and you have for such a long time, and when it happens, or—if it happens, I want it to be—perfect.But then again, I don’t want to put that kind of pressure myself or on you.

“And I guess I’ve been thinking about it a lot…”John’s cheeks go pink.“Fantasising about it a lot, and I realised this morning, that I don’t even know if you really want this relationship to have a—physical aspect in that way, and I’m starting to feel guilty for thinking about it, if it’s something you’re not okay with.”

“I don’t mind you thinking about it.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think about it?Not just think about it.I mean—do you…?”

Sherlock buries face back in his arms, feels the arousal that had been slowly fading, surge back to life at the question.He has to fight not to shift his weight against the floor.“Yes.”

“Oh.”John sounds surprised.“So you think about us, and you…?”

“Sometimes.”More than sometimes lately, but this whole conversation is mortifying enough already.Exact details are superfluous and unnecessary.

“But when it comes to you and me actually…That’s when you become unsure?”

Sherlock nods.

“Why?”

The alcohol has all but worn off now, and Sherlock desperately wishes that wasn’t the case.“I don’t know.”

“Maybe because it’s new?An unknown?”

Sherlock just shrugs.

“Thought your natural curiosity would override anything like that, to be honest.”

“Apparently not.”

“Can I lay back down there with you?”

Sherlock feels a surge of adrenaline burst through his veins.John is right.he is anxious.it’s ludicrous.“Yes.”

John does, and this time he lays down right next to him, body mere inches away.He lays on his side, head propped up on his hand, reaches out and lays his other one on Sherlock's back, where he begins to rub slow circles. 

He melts under John’s touch.It seems to leech the anxiety from his veins and take the twitchy, desperate edge off his arousal.He starts to drift.

“We’ll figure it out.”John murmurs.“Just—promise me you’ll tell me if you don’t want something.”

“Mmm…”

“Sherlock, it’s really important to me.Promise me.Please.”

“Promise,” he mumbles from inside the cage of his arms.

John huffs.“Okay.Good.You want me to keep doing this?”

“Yes please.”

He feels John lay all the way down, resting his head on his arm, while he continues his ministrations with his other. 

“It’s never been like this with someone before.”John sounds pensive.“It always just sort of happened.You know, like a happy accident, or sometimes not so happy as it turned out, but…I didn’t think about it.It was just something that happened to me, and I sort of got swept along in the tide.It’s different with you this time.”

Sherlock finally finds the courage to tilt his head to the side and face John again.“Is that a good thing?”

John nods against his arm.“Yeah.Feels like—something I’m choosing, something we’re choosing together.It’s not just a happenstance anymore.It’s somewhere I’m choosing to go, with someone I’m choosing to love, and…”John huffs.And turns to bury his face in his arm.“Christ, I must sound barmy.”

“No.It makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.You choose me.You choose us.I’m glad.For years I felt as though I was just something that happened to you, sometimes, as you say, a happy coincidence.But other times not so happy, more like a disaster, a tragedy, like you getting shot out in Afghanistan, or…”

John winces.“No.Don’t ever say that.You were the best thing to ever happen to me.i’m glad you did.But now you’re choosing me, and I’m choosing you, and somehow…That means even more.”

Sherlock nods, reaches out and trails the back of his fingers over John’s cheek, relishes in the way John’s eye’s slide shut, and his lips part.They _have_ chosen one another.Sometimes, despite all odds, and the complete madness of it, Sherlock almost believes they somehow chose one another centuries ago, that they keep on choosing one another over, and lover, and over again, because that is what they do, and that is who they are, that they have always loved one another and always will.

Then he chastises himself for a lovesick loon, drags himself back to reality, and appreciates the moment for what it is.Like this moment, John pressing into his touch, leaning forward until their foreheads press together, until their breath mingles, and both their hearts calm, and settle again, into a common rhythm.


	23. Day 23 - Father Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 23**

**Prompt: Father Christmas**

 

John had been called in early that morning for an unexpected shift at the surgery.Sarah was ill, and since she had just finished pulling a multitude of strings to get him transferred to the surgery on Marylebone High Street, he said he owed her.Mrs. Hudson was to be mostly in and out all day doing last minute errands for the Christmas Eve do she had planned, and none of the usual minders were available, so Sherlock had volunteered to care for Rosie.

They have spent the day watching nature documentaries, drawing, and engaging in (relatively) child-safe chemistry experiments.Rosie had been particularly enamoured with the mildly dramatic reaction between acetic acid and sodium bicarbonate.But now it’s growing close to supper time.John is late, Rosie is restless, and Sherlock is anxious and eager for him to be home.

He’s just started to rummage through the pantry in search of something he can feed Rosie if John is further delayed, when he hears the door downstairs slam shut, and a heavy, booted tread on the stairs.Someone about John’s height, with a similar gait, but slightly heavier and in different attire.

They weren’t expecting anyone, so he is instantly on alert.He scoops up Rosie and waits.The person stops when they reach the top of the stairs.There is a moment of silence, and then…

“Ho, ho, ho!Where is the little lady of the house?!”A voice that is unmistakably John’s, but affected, pitched low, and ridiculously dramatic. 

Sherlock blinks, takes a step into the kitchen, and at the same moment the bizarre anomaly steps into the lounge.Red velvet Father Christmas suit and hat, shiny black boots, bulging faux belly, sack of toys slung over one shoulder, and an utterly ridiculous synthetic beard.

Rosie’s grip on Sherlock’s shirt tightens.

“Well, well, there she is!Have you been a good little girl this year?”

Sherlock just stares, slack-jawed as John’s dark eyes sparkle beneath the white trim of the bobbing hat. 

“You go now!”Rosie shouts bravely, still gripping vice-like to Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock arches a brow.

“Don’t you want any present’s, Rosie?I’ve brought you quite a few.”John rumbles, patting his belly in what Sherlock can only assume he thinks is some facsimile of _jolly_ , but instead just makes him look like he’s nine months pregnant and horribly uncomfortable.

“You go!”Rosie repeats with even more determination, confirming once again that she is unmistakably a Watson.

Sherlock finally finds his voice.“Perhaps we should see what Father Christmas has on offer first, hm?I imagine he’s brought you some very nice things.I’ll go with you, if you like.”

“No.”

Sherlock shrugs.“Terribly sorry Nicholas, it appears the young lady is disinclined to acquiesce to your request.”

John frowns, “You been watching _Pirates of the Caribbean_ again, when I’m not here?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Good Sir.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitches beneath satiny, silver whiskers.He’s dropped all affectation now, and Rosie is leaning forward reaching out in curiosity.Sherlock strolls into the lounge so she can confirm her hypothesis. 

As soon as she is within arms reach, she lunges forward and pulls John’s beard off with a flourish.“Daddy!”

John laughs.“I can see nothing gets past you.”

“She’s very clever, John.I’ve been telling you for months.”

“Hmm, so it seems…So what do you say, Ro.You want to see what Daddy brought you?”

John sets the toy sack on the floor, reaches under his coat to tear off his fake belly, and then flops down in Sherlock’s chair.“Christ what a day.I’ve never been so glad to be home in my life.”

Sherlock sets Rosie down on the floor and she immediately runs for the discarded toy sack.

“Can she just dig into all that?”

“Yeah, it’s mostly just empty boxes, but there are some little trinkets and stuff in there.Toddler age toys left over from the surgery.”Rosie is climbing head first into the bag.“You dig in there Ro.”

John reaches out and gives the back of Sherlock’s thigh a quick squeeze.“What about you?How was your day?”

“Rosie and I kept very busy, there may have been one or two controlled, chemical reactions involved.”

John’s eyes roll heavenward.“Not even going to ask.”

Suddenly he reaches out and hooks a finger in Sherlock’s trouser pocket, giving a little tug.It catches Sherlock completely unawares, and before his knows it, he’s toppling back into John’s lap.

John grunts a little, and then laughs, before pulling his beard back, up and giving Sherlock a wink.“And what about you, young man.Have you been a good boy this year, hmm?There might just be something in Santa’s sack for you.”

Sherlock wants to ask John what he’s doing, but his cheeks are flushed, and he can’t seem to form a single word.

John’s smile fades a little.“You okay?”

Sherlock nods.

John looks relieved.He grins again and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him closer.Sherlock goes willingly.

John’s Father Christmas voice is back.“Well, I happen to know that you’ve been a _very_ good boy this year, and there will be lots of goodies for you in Santa’s sleigh come Christmas Eve.” 

“That’s tomorrow,” Sherlock blurts stupidly.

“That’s right.Clever boy.”

Sherlock blinks again.His cheeks are burning, and his head feels light.He has to tuck his face in the crook of John’s neck, because it’s suddenly and inexplicably become too much. 

John chuckles and pets his head.“Missed you today.”

Sherlock nods.

“There anything in?I’m starving.”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Hey, you sure you okay?”

Sherlock nods again.John’s neck smells of faded cologne, and nitrile, and antiseptic.And despite it all, Sherlock has the most overwhelming desire to taste him, to push aside the polyester fibres of his horrible fake beard, and lick a slow swath from suprasternal notch all the way up behind his ear.Sherlock shivers, and John must somehow sense why, because he hums a little, and knots his fingers gently in Sherlock’s curls.

“Meant it about Christmas.Lot of surprises.Promise.”Murmured low enough for only Sherlock to hear.

“Daddy, penguin!”

John’s fingers loosen their grip and rub lightly through Sherlock’s hair instead, and Sherlock moves his head a little, so he can see Rosie standing victorious beside the toy sack, miniature, plush penguin held aloft in her small hand. 

“You and your penguins,” John chuckles.“Nothing but penguins, right now, isn’t it.Maybe we should get you Arctic wallpaper for your room.Would you like that?”

“It’s Antarctic, John.Penguins are from Antarctica.”Sherlock corrects.

“Mm, that so…”

“Ankartica!!”Rosie hugs the penguin to her chest, and climbs back down on the floor to further explore _Father Christmas’s_ many treasures.

Sherlock, he thinks, has all the treasure he needs in the form of the man himself.


	24. Day 24 - "I'm so happy for you, boys!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note:** I know that traditionally Advent calendars end at 24 days, but we were always planning to do 25 days for this one, so this isn’t the end. More tomorrow. 
> 
> **Bonus:** I also will be writing a slightly more nsfw epilogue to this story, sometime next week (along with illustration from @chained-to-the-mirror), so there will be that to look forward to (if it’s your cup of tea), as well.
> 
> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 24**

**Prompt: ”I’m so happy for you, boys!”**

 

“And just why are you insisting on torturing me in this manner?”Sherlock pouts from under the covers of his bed, where he’s cocooned himself.

John grins.“Because Mrs. Hudson has been planning this do for weeks, which you know, and because if you wear this jumper, we can take a photo to send to your mother, proving you got good use of it, and then bin it, never to be seen again.”

Sherlock huffs.

“Also, I seem to recall mentioning a few weeks ago that if you wore it, I would make it well worth your while.That still stands, by the way, and with extras.”

Sherlock’s head pops out.“What extras?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.it’s a surprise.”

Sherlock sits up, and John sits down on the the edge of the mattress.“Listen, I know you hate these things.We just have to go for an hour or two—for Mrs. Hudson’s sake.Let me and her take a few pictures and you can take the jumper off, come back up here, and ring Christmas in properly.”

“Properly?”

“You know Rosie went out like a light, and you know she sleeps all the way upstairs, and you further know Mrs. Hudson will have music playing until all hours, and the neighbours on both sides are coming to this bloody thing, so she has no reason, whatsoever, to shut it all down early.What do you deduce from all that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock stares at him blankly, and just shakes his head.

John takes a deep breath in fond exasperation, and pushes down the sudden, unexpected jitter of nerves that bursts in his chest.“You know…Thought we could—try things.”

“What things?”

“Whatever things you’d like.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sherlock I’m talking about what we discussed the other day in the lounge.After you finished off my best bottle of scotch.”

He sees understanding dawn.Sherlock’s mouth forms into a small o of realisation.

“Unless you don’t want to, which is totally fine too,” John rushes to amend.He’s starting to feel considerably less confident. 

“Alright.”It’s quiet, almost a whisper, but Sherlock sounds thoughtful and a little awed rather than put off or anxious, so John wagers it safe to proceed, except now he’s the one who’s nervous.

“Right.Well—good.”John stands up, suddenly unable to even look Sherlock in the eye, which is pretty bloody ridiculous, and he knows it.“On with the jumper and off we go.”

______________________________

 

The party is filled with people John doesn’t know, and a few he does.Greg and Molly are there, and someone he thinks might be Mrs. Turner from next door.A bunch of older women who he assumes must be friends from Mrs. Hudson’s bridge club, Mr. Chatterjee, and several others he can’t place at all. 

The party isn’t big enough to just disappear, or leave unnoticed.He feels small, and on display, and out of place, all at once, and is suddenly wondering why he didn’t just defer to Sherlock’s wisdom earlier, and skip the whole thing entirely.

Mrs. Hudson bustles out of nowhere.“Oh!Look at you two in your funny little jumpers.Let me get a picture.”

John hears Sherlock sigh heavily behind him, and feels instant relief, even as he fights back a twitch of a smile.

“May I remind you, that you were the one who insisted on subjecting us to this tinsel-strewn nightmare, and if you are feeling remorse now, you’ve no one to blame but yourself.”Sherlock appears at his shoulder, and hands him a small glass of punch.“We don’t have to stay, you know.”

“Yeah…I just—I think we should do this for Mrs. Hudson.”

“Mm.Suit yourself.”

Mrs. Hudson chooses that moment to reappear, phone in hand.“Alright boys, smile…Oh Sherlock, smile!”

“It will be worse if his does,” John reminds her, while trying to force some facsimile of a smile himself.

“Are you finished?”Sherlock drawls, sounding bored nearly to tears.

Mrs. Hudson sighs.“I suppose.You could at least try to smile dear, you know your mother will want a copy and…”

“Precisely why I will not.”

Sherlock shrugs hurriedly out of the jumper, the minute the photo has been taken, revealing John’s favourite blue shirt beneath.He heaves a sigh of relief, as though the thing had been a literal weight upon his shoulders.

Greg strolls over, with Molly at his elbow.“Here you two are.Sherlock, nice to see you here.Two Christmas parties in one season…Must be John’s doing.”

“So it seems.”To anyone else Sherlock would sound merely bored, but John is sure he hears a hint of fondness in the response.

“So, you two staying in town for Christmas, or headed out to family?”

“Staying in town,” John supplies.

“With family,” Sherlock adds.

“Oh yeah?”Your sister coming over John?

“No, I…”

“John and Rosie are family.”Sherlock states, very matter-of-a-factly.

“Oh right.Very true.”

Mrs. Hudson claps her hands together.“Oh, is it all official then?!”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock drawls.

“Oh, you two…Keeping it from me. I’m so happy for you boys, you have no idea!”

“On the contrary, we have an excellent idea. I’ve already prepared myself to never hear the end of it.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.You know I’ve been hoping.”

“Yeah, we know.”John finally finds his voice.“Actually, I’d sort of assumed you knew.”

Mrs. Hudson reaches out and rubs his arm.“Well, you know—one does like to stay positive.I’d assumed, and hoped I was right.”

John can almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes.“Haven’t you always.”

“Yes, I have, and only because you deserve it, Sherlock.You deserve happiness.You too, John.”

“Hear-hear,” Greg pipes in, lifting his glass of punch aloft.

“To happiness,” Molly steps forward, raising a glass of her own.

“To happiness,” Mrs. Hudson echoes.

“To happiness,” Greg adds with a grin.

John feels Sherlock take a step closer, shift his weight until his left arm is pressed against John’s right.He lifts his glass with his other.“To happiness.”

“To happiness.”  John reaches over, wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist, gives a little squeeze, holds on tight.


	25. Day 25 - Christmas Presents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** I want to thank all of you so much for coming on this journey. It has been a joy, and a pleasure, and one of my favourite parts of this holiday season. A huge thank you to [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/), for letting me join in on their little project, last minute.
> 
> Please see the end notes for what comes next, as I don't want to give away anything here.
> 
> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).

**Christmas Advent Calendar**

**Day 25**

**Prompt: Christmas Gifts**

 

In the end they are hooked into a game of charades, and opening little gifts that Mrs. Hudson made up special for everyone in attendance: an assortment of biscuits, a pair of gloves, a scarf. 

Then there is Greg going on, and on about cold cases, and Molly beaming up at him like he’s the most amazing person she’s ever seen.And there is Sherlock, of course, hanging on every word, rapt, as though unsolved murders are better than anything Father Christmas could ever deem to bring him. 

Finally, after everyone has left, there is a little nightcap with Mrs. Hudson, a very pleasant ending to the night, but now it’s well past midnight, and they are only just climbing the stairs to their flat, Sherlock checking Rosie’s child monitor for the millionth time that night on his phone.

“She’s fine.You’re like a mother hen.”

“We were downstairs longer than I’d anticipated.”

“Too right.It’s Christmas Day already.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.”

John is in a foul mood, which is precisely what he’d feared, precisely how he DIDN’T want to ring in the day.How is it that he is always off come Christmas, despite all efforts to the contrary?How does he always manage to ruin everything?!

They’ve reached the top of the stairs now, and Sherlock is hesitating on the landing.“John…”

“Yeah.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”He knows he doesn’t sound merry.He knows he’d promised Sherlock things earlier, that he just doesn’t seem to have the energy or inclination for now.He knows Sherlock has sensed something is wrong.He’s doing that thing he does, the one where he tiptoes carefully around him, as though any wrong move or word might cause him to break.  John knows he should be touched, instead he’s just irritated.

“Would you like a cup of cocoa?”

“What I’d like is for you to stop coddling me.”

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut.His eyes zip back and forth, deducing, John supposes, summing him up.After a moment he turns, and walks into the kitchen.“I’m going to make one for myself, but I would like to give you one of your gifts before you go to bed.”

“Oh.Yeah?Okay.” 

John follows him into the kitchen, and flops down at the table.“Listen, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I snapped at you just now.Not sure what’s wrong with me.”

“You hate social events like that.You’ve worn yourself out.Besides, Christmas has always been difficult for you.”

“Yeah…I guess.Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise for that.Part of the negative associations were my doing, as I’m sure you recall.”

“I had plans for us tonight.”

“I know.”

“You know what, a hot cocoa doesn’t sound half bad.Do you mind?”

“Of course not.”

They sit in silence as Sherlock sets the milk on the cooker to warm, gathers the other ingredients he needs from the pantry.“Do I still get to burn Mummy’s jumper?”

John chuckles.“Can’t see why not.Might make an awful stench, though.”

“Mmm…True.”

“You wore it for less than an hour.Not sure I should count that.”

“You got your precious picture.It counts.Besides, you like me better in this shirt.”

It’s true, John does.There had been times throughout the party when he could hardly keep his eyes off of him, and now here they are, alone, quiet and intimate, in the homely atmosphere of the kitchen, and he feels nothing, none of the desire that had been lacing through his veins for weeks, none of the aching anticipation he had been feeling just a few hours earlier.

“Stop worrying.”

“Hm?”

“You’re worrying, because you’ve promised me things, and now you’re not in the mood.Stop worrying.You know I don’t care about things like that.It will happen when it happens.”

John swallows tightly, wills his leg to stop aching.

“Do you want to open your gift?I should warn you, that it is quite selfish on my part.”

“Oh yeah?Well, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”The joke falls horribly flat, John realises it the minute it’s out of his mouth.But Sherlock just taps a spoon on the edge of the cocoa pot to loosen the last bit of cocoa powder, and then turns and looks at him with eyebrows raised. 

“You’ll like it, I promise.”

“I—yeah, okay.”

Sherlock nods, and disappears into his room, returning with a box impeccably wrapped in green, plaid paper and a burgundy, velvet ribbon.He sets it in front of John on the table before returning to the cooker.“I saw you eyeing something else from the same shop, which was, unfortunately, sold out in your size, when I returned for it.But I found that instead and I believe it will suit you just as well, if not better.”

John is intrigued despite his mood.It’s probably the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever given him.He’d always managed to break up with his girlfriends just around Christmas time, meaning that if they’d bothered to get him something, he wasn’t around long enough to see it.And then he and Mary never really had the chance to have a proper Christmas at all, so this is a first.He trails a finger over the posh wrappings, and can’t help but feel a bit overwhelmed and undeserving. 

Sherlock sets down a mug of steaming cocoa with two marshmallows floating on top in front of him, and then sits down in the chair across the table.“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Overthinking.Of course you deserve it.Now open it.I’m tired of waiting.”

John snorts and starts to carefully remove the ribbon and then the paper.He pulls out the Ralph Lauren box, and looks up at Sherlock.“You noticed me looking that night on Bond Street?”

“It’s what I do.”Sherlock nods towards the box.“Go ahead.”

John breaks the sticker seal on the box, peels back the tissue paper.The jumper inside is most certainly cashmere, unbelievably soft to the touch, and a blue so dark he is almost sure it must be the same shade as his eyes.He runs a hand over it, and swallows down the tightness in his throat. 

He looks up.“This is gorgeous.Sherlock, I know what something like this costs, and I…”

“Shhh…Just put it on.”John feels the corner of his mouth twitch, as Sherlock grins.“I told you it was a selfish gift.”

“Okay.”John picks up the box, and turns to head to the loo.

“Here, if you don’t mind.”Sherlock’s voice is suddenly pitched low, in that register that never fails to get a response.And sure enough, John’s body betrays him with a shiver.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”Sherlock stands, and quickly pulls his chair out, sets it a little away from the table, and sits again.To get a better view of the proceedings, John assumes.He feels his cheeks flush, as he pulls the itchy Christmas jumper over his head, revealing the vest he has on underneath, and then reaches quickly for the new one.

He catches a brief glimpse of Sherlock’s face, lips parted, eyes keen and intent, just before he pulls it over his head.It’s every bit as soft on, as he imagined, and he doesn’t need a mirror to know how flattering it is. 

Sherlock’s eyes are everywhere, trailing over every inch, eyes bright, fingers digging lightly into the fabric of his trousers.“Perfect.”

John looks down at himself.The jumper does look fine with his grey moleskin trousers.He stands a little straighter, and gives Sherlock a wink.“That so?”

“Mmm…”

“Have to say, I don’t mind you being selfish when it means me ending up in something like this.”

“Good, because you can expect more of the same.”

“You going to start dressing me now?”

“Certainly not, but—if little things should appear in your closet now and then…”Sherlock smiles, soft, and fond, and just a little flirtatious.“Come here.”

Sherlock parts his legs, and John steps into the space Sherlock has created for him.His knees bump up against the seat of Sherlock’s chair, his fingers instantly gravitating to Sherlock’s curls.Sherlock’s eyes slide shut.  He reaches up and wraps his arms around the back of John’s thighs as he buries his face in his belly.

John can feel the moist heat of his breath through the fine, soft wool, the way Sherlock’s thumbs trace soothing lines, where his hands grip on, firm and grounding.“Perfect,” he murmurs again, and John feels the movement of Sherlock’s lips just above his navel, feels his own body start to respond, the surface of his skin tingle and sing, a warmth begin to build in his centre, to radiate outward—downward.

John knots his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.He doesn’t pull, it’s nothing but the slight tug his fists naturally provide, butSherlock’s grip around him tightens, he huffs into John’s jumper.

John feels a soft rush of awe.“Sometimes I think you’re a miracle, you know…”Sherlock looks up at him, cheeks pink, lashes a long, and dark, and lovely frame for pale, sparkling eyes.“My miracle.”He cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, cradles his head and runs his thumbs over forehead.

Sherlock’s hands slip forward, and onto his hips.He pushes a little, and John worries for a moment that he’s being pushed away, but instead, Sherlock slides back in his seat, presses his legs together, and then pulls John back in again. 

He has no choice but to straddle Sherlock’s thighs.It’s vulnerable, and he feels a little heady with it.His arousal surges suddenly to the forefront, trousers slowly growing more and more snug, and at Sherlock’s eye level, too.Sherlock’s grip on his hips tightens a little, and he pulls downward.

John goes, settles into his lap, fighting desperately not to move, but Sherlock’s hands are skirting up his ribcage, down his spine, settling, finally, on his lower back, just before the rise of his arse.Sherlock eases him forward, until John’s arousal presses against Sherlocks stomach, and then he buries his face in John’s neck and breathes a small, high-pitched sound against spot where it meets his shoulder.A whimper, John realises.Sherlock has just whimpered into the crook of his neck.

“John…”

“Mmm…”It comes out half moan, surprises John.

“Can I?”

“Yes.God yes.”He’s dizzy, and flooded with endorphins, Sherlock’s breath against his heated skin, Sherlock’s hands cupping his arse, gently, but firmly, holding him against his body, like he wants to feel, needs to know just how much John wants him. 

Sherlock mouths his throat gently, and then kisses him there, a tender string of kisses, from his suprasternal notch to half way up his neck.He stops, huffs as though he had forgotten to breathe and then resumes, the kisses deepening, a hint of wet heat where Sherlock’s tongue dips out to taste, suck up to just behind his ear.

John is weak.His whole body is so alive with want that he seems utterly drunk on it.He is aware of Sherlock, of the sensations of his mouth moving along his jaw now, making the most phenomenal sounds, small ‘uhhs’ of pleasure, until his lips finally find their home.

The first press of his lips against John’s is tentative, experimental, almost chaste.He stays very still, until John lifts his hands to Sherlock’s face, trailing a thumb along his cheekbone, and kisses him back.

He feels Sherlock melt into the kiss, his arms lift to wrap around John’s back, hold him tight, and warm, and safe, and John kisses, and kisses and kisses him.He doesn’t know how long they stay that way.The world seems to stop for a very long time, and when they finally part, Sherlock blinks at him with something like awe, cheeks pink, hair a beautiful halo of disarray.

John smiles.“I love you.”

“And I love you.”

John dips back in, kisses him again, with a smile on his lips, until Sherlock is breathless and chuckling, low, and deep and filled with joy.

“John, could we go to bed?”

“Mmm, sounds like a good idea.Need to give Father Christmas time to do his work.”

Sherlock laughs again.“Indeed.”And then with an intensity that sends another shiver of anticipation down John’s spine, “Come then.”

The kisses continue once they are both tangled together beneath the sheets, but though hearts are willing, bodies are weak, and they are asleep in minutes.

___________________________

 

When John wakes a few hours later, it’s to Sherlock’s nose pressed lightly against his, mouth hanging open, utterly guileless.He is the most beautiful thing John has ever seen (but then, hasn’t he always been).John lays for at least a half hour more, watching him sleep, and then slips as carefully as he can from beneath the covers, takes up his clothes from the night before, and quietly retreats to start the day.

He fills the stockings, making sure to nudge a chocolate orange firmly in the toe of Sherlock’s.He sneaks upstairs and brings down the gifts, arranges them pleasingly around the hearth.There are four gifts for Sherlock, all of them carefully chosen, but none as precious, or as personal as the card John holds in his hand.

He props it up in a place of honour, dead centre on the mantle, for Sherlock to find when he wakes, and then sets to brewing the coffee, and starting breakfast.

Rosie wakes before Sherlock, and John goes to fetch her, whispering to her about Father Christmas coming, telling her that they can go through her stocking, but that they have to wait for Sherlock to get up before they can open the rest.She’s delighted by the tiny board books on the North and South Poles, and John is reading them to her when Sherlock finally stumbles out of bed, bleary eyed, clothes from the night before hastily re-donned, dressing gown hanging from one shoulder.

“Morning,” John smiles.

He sees instant relief on Sherlock’s face, as his eyes light on John and Rosie seated in his chair, reading.

“Oh.Yes.Good-morning.”

“There’s coffee, and those cinnamon rolls I bought are warming in the oven.Should be perfect right about now, I’d say.Why don’t you come and sit with her, and I’ll get you one.”

Sherlock comes, sinks gratefully into John’s chair, and smiles as Rosie is lowered into his lap.“Good-morning, Rose, and what has Father Christmas brought you, hmm?”

John smiles as he fixes Sherlock’s coffee, takes the rolls from the oven, and listens as Rosie tells him about the contents of her stocking, while Sherlock responds back in his usual manner, talking to her as though she is twenty rather than not quite two.

It’s the first Christmas John can remember where there is nothing expected of him, no awkward afternoons with Harry, fighting desperately to stop nagging her about drinking (she’s been sober six months, and is spending Christmas with the family of her new girlfriend), none of the tension or loss he experienced during his marriage, none of the adrenaline or violence of his days in the army.Just this quiet, settled domesticity.

There was a time when he would have scoffed at it.When he was younger, because he thought it was the opposite of what he wanted, and later because it was something he thought he would never have (and didn’t deserve).But this morning is perfect, in every way, and it’s only just beginning.

When he strolls back into the lounge, Rosie is on the floor playing with the plush rabbit he had stuffed in her stocking, and Sherlock has started a fire in the hearth, and already found the card John had left on the mantle.He looks up, eyes full, and John smiles.“I meant it, you know.Every word.”

___________________________

 

Mrs. Hudson comes up with a second breakfast, an hour later, only to be met with the sound of Christmas tunes on the radio, and a child’s laughter, and to the sight of John and Sherlock, wrapped in one another’s arms, slow dancing around the lounge.

Her heart is fit to burst.Finally.Finally.

There isn’t anyone who deserves it more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **End Notes:** So here we are... Don't worry about the letter. I'm not going to pull a Moffat on you, and just leave you hanging re: its contents. There is a nsfw epilogue coming in the next few days, and you will find out it's contents at the beginning of that.
> 
> For those of you who don't enjoy nsfw stuff, no worries, the letter's contents will be revealed in the first half of the epilogue, and you may skip the rest if you so choose.
> 
> Thanks again for all your support for this series. Your kudos and comments have been such a joy to see, and read each day.
> 
>  
> 
> **Happy holidays, and peace and blessings for your new year.**


	26. The Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [chained-to-the-mirror](https://chained-to-the-mirror.tumblr.com/) and Day 1 - 25 prompts by [honeybeelullaby](https://honeybeelullaby.tumblr.com/).
> 
> **RATING NOTE:** Please note that this epilogue is more nsfw than all the other chapters. I would probably rate it Mature. If this is not your cup of tea, then you might want to skip.

**Johnlock Advent Calendar**

**Day After New Years**

**Epilogue (NSFW)**

 

They are rare now, the days that Sherlock is wholly alone in the flat, but today is one of them.John is at work, Rosie is at play group with the nanny (which had been another one of Sherlock’s somewhat selfish Christmas gifts to John).Mrs. Hudson is off on errands.Sherlock is surrounded by the sort of blissful stillness and quiet that used to be his solace.Today he feels restless.He misses John.

John’s fully furnished flat sold two days after Christmas.The estate agent had called it a miracle.Sherlock knew the truth: an old client of his who had recently expressed on social media that they were in need of a flat in the area.A favour, both ways.All-in-all it worked out for everyone concerned.

And so, John had moved in permanently, just yesterday.He brought nothing but a handful of boxes and bags, mostly Rosie’s things.All of it had fit in the boot and backseat of his car.This morning he had awakened and gone to work at the surgery just as though it were any other day, as though the last few years had been nothing but a dream, and they were picking up where they had left off before Moriarty’s games, before Sherlock had jumped, before the wedding, and the betrayals, and the death and pain that had followed.

But those years weren’t a dream.There is Rosie to bear testament to that, and of course all the changes in and between him and John… 

John shares his bed now.John kisses him good-bye in the morning, had just this morning, in fact.John has navigated back into his rightful place, and he has adapted to their new, shared reality much more easily than Sherlock could ever have imagined, given how very much he seemed to be running from it all just a few weeks prior.Things had been at a standstill for so long, and when they finally moved they moved quickly—perhaps too quickly…

Sherlock looks down at the piece of paper in his hands.It’s dogeared already.He’s read it at least three times a day since Christmas morning, cherishing the words, searching for the meaning between them, simply bathing in the deep, warm affection that flows from every one.

John’s letter is more than he ever could have hoped for.

John is man of letters, it’s true.His blog is what put Sherlock on the map.Whether Sherlock likes the idea or not, he’s not a fool.He knows it.He owes John for that.John has always romanticised him, painted him out to be some sort of larger-than-life character from an adventure novel. 

But, that is why Sherlock cherishes this letter all the more.It’s honest.It’s not a fairytale.It’s John acknowledging, finally, that Sherlock is human, as human as he is, and that hopefully, together, they can build something worth holding on to. 

There could have been no better gift.

He traces a finger over the words, handwritten in John’s own careful script, and reads it again:

 

> Sherlock,
> 
> I’m not sure if this is an adequate gift.I have to be honest, money is tight, especially with the move coming up, and I had to pour most of it into things for Rosie.But then, maybe that is for the best.I don’t think that anything money could buy would ever be able to express how grateful I am for you, or the things I feel for you.To be quite honest, I’m not even sure if I’ll manage that here, but I’m going to try.
> 
> I guess I’ll just start off by being perfectly blunt. In the beginning you were like a dream, a fairytale.You saved me.And then for a very long time after you died, came back, seemed to not want me at all anymore, I felt like you were the worst thing to ever happen to me, like a natural disaster—awe inspiring, beautiful, but devastating.But in the last year, and maybe even before that, maybe a little bit in those five months Mary was gone and it was just you, and me, and Rosie, I started to see you as something else.I started to see you as human.Just human.Flawed, and broken, and trying your bloody best, just like me.And that changed things.
> 
> As you’ve so often observed, I can be an royal idiot.I should have seen you much sooner, I should have stopped using my own sense of inadequacy to hurt you, but we can’t all be geniuses, so here I am acknowledging you as you are, and maybe extending a bit of an apology as well.I should have seen it.I should have seen it sooner, and I didn’t because I think maybe I didn’t want to.
> 
> I do now.
> 
> I’m sorry it took me so long.
> 
> That being said, there are things I want to promise you here.I know I’ve said a lot of these things to your face, already, but there’s always something sort of nice about having it in writing too, don’t you think?You can revisit it whenever you want.Perhaps with your great brain, you don’t really know what I mean.I imagine you’ve got all sorts of things easily within your reach up there, but sometimes it fails you, yeah?So, consider this a backup.
> 
> First: I love you.
> 
> I hope you know that, but sometimes I wonder if you ‘know’ know it.Lucky for us, I have a lot of time to make sure you know.And I’m going to try to be better at that.If any of my past relationships are any indication, I’m a bit of a shite romantic partner.Always in my own head, not thinking about the person I’m with, mind everywhere else…Come to think of it, a lot of the time where my head was at was with you.Funny how I didn’t realise that until just now, writing it down.
> 
> But, I do love you, and I want to be a good man to you, for you, with you.Not sure if you know this, but that’s something you deserve.The last couple of years have been a bloody horrifying mess, but you were always there, this calm in the midst of the storm that was my life.It was hard to see sometimes.Sometimes I thought you were the storm, or the cause of it.In some things you were, in a way.But through it all, you stood alone, this calm island in the centre of a roaring sea.I can see that now I’m at the other side of it.Couldn’t in the midst of it, but isn’t that always the way.
> 
> I’m so grateful to you for that.I’m grateful that you stood firm, and extended a lifeline, and kept extending it, even when I refused to take hold.I wouldn’t be here now if not for that.You’ve saved me so many times, and I don’t think I’ve ever really, properly said thank you.So, I’m saying it now.Thank you for believing in me, for wanting me, for loving me, when I couldn’t extend any of those things to myself. 
> 
> I hope I can do the same for you.Because you do deserve it, Sherlock.You deserve so much more than what life, or I have given you up to this point.So, I promise you that.I promise you love, and patience, and attentiveness.I promise you a listening ear and a supportive shoulder.I promise you loyalty, and faithfulness, and commitment.I promise to give you all these things to the best of my ability.
> 
> I’m not always going to get it right, or be exactly what you deserve, but I want you to know that you DO deserve it, and that I’m going to give you the best of myself, and when that best falls short, I’m going to work at doing better. 
> 
> So, now we’ve established that you deserve the best.I’d like to start making sure you get it.
> 
> I’m going to pose a question to you, and you can take as much time as you want to mull over the answer.Here it is:
> 
> _What do you want?_ And what I mean is, what do you want from me?What do you want for us?What do you want our relationship to look like? 
> 
> Maybe that seems like a lot of pressure.It’s kind of nerve wracking telling someone what you want when you don’t know if they want the same things.So, let me assure you that I want to explore whatever it is you might want.You know me—I do like a little bit of an adventure.I don’t think you could surprise me all that much, and if you did, well then, all the better.I have no expectations.I’m merely curious, and I want you to have whatever it is you’ve been hoping for, dreaming of.
> 
> So take your time.Tell me whenever you feel ready.
> 
> I love you.
> 
>  
> 
> Yours,
> 
> John

 

The words still seem unfathomable.Not because he doesn’t think that John loves him, but because they seem so incredibly self-aware, so incredibly determined.Something has changed in John.It happened over the Christmas season, and Sherlock can’t seem to nail down exactly when, or how. If he believed in miracles he would almost be tempted to call this one, but he doesn’t, which means it is a mystery, one he has thus far been unsuccessful at solving, and one which, much to his chagrin, he seems fine with leaving that way.

His mind has been occupied with other things.

John has been sharing his bed every night since Christmas.It is wonderful, but has also been the cause of some frustration.With John there, Sherlock is no longer free to relieve the tension he sometimes wakes to, and with John there, that has been more of an inconvenient necessity than ever.

The last few nights they lie close in the dark, talk a little, and then go to sleep.Last night, they had kissed, something they had not done since that first time, in the wee hours of Christmas day.It was John being there, permanently.John being home.Sherlock had reached out for him in the dark and kissed him without a thought, without permission. 

John had seemed a little surprised at first, but he had kissed back, with the sort of soft, careful tenderness that still makes Sherlock weak and giddy.But when Sherlock’s arousal had become apparent, and John’s had followed swiftly on it’s heel, John had slowly disengaged, and with a few sweet words, rolled over and gone to sleep.

Sherlock has been thinking about this all day.

John wants to know what Sherlock wants, he wants to give Sherlock what he wants, but John may not be ready to, and John may not realise that.It’s a precarious situation.One which requires tact, and perception, and the wisdom to read when the time is right—all things Sherlock isn’t quite sure he possesses. 

Sherlock flops down on the sofa, and smoothes the letter over his chest, folds his hands atop it, and lets his eyes slide shut.There is time to think on it before John gets home from work.There is time to formulate a plan.

* * *

John is already in the flat slamming cupboard doors, muttering away to himself about Sherlock being a lazy sod, and doing his utmost not to shout at a very rambunctious Rosie, when Sherlock slips from his mind palace.

Not a good day at work, then.

Sherlock gets to his feet, scoops up Rosie from the carpet by John’s chair, and strolls into the kitchen.

“Oh, nice to see you’ve decided to get up off your arse.I’ve only just had to put up all this shopping myself.”

“Would you like me to go to the shops on days when you are working and I don’t have a case?I could.Just leave me a list.”

It is clear John wasn’t expecting this.His mouth opens and closes a couple times but no words are forthcoming.

“I’m sorry I didn’t hear you come in.I’ve had things on my mind.How was your day?”

“Busy,” John finally manages.

“It’s the day after New Years, I’m sure the surgery was a madhouse, and you’re tired.Do you want me to get a takeaway?”

“Yeah, I—that would be nice.Yeah.”

“Alright.”He turns to Rosie.“Come help me order the dumplings Daddy likes.”

He can see John watching him out of the corner of his eye as he shows Rosie where to tap on his phone to order the food.After a minute or two, John shrinks and disappears into the bedroom.

Once Sherlock gets Rosie settled in with a movie, he follows.

John is sitting on the edge of the bed, back to the door, head buried in his hands.

Sherlock moves around the bed, and sits down beside him.“Are you alright?”

John nods.

He’s not.Clearly he’s not, but Sherlock lets him have it.He runs a hand down the length of John’s spine. 

“Work was difficult?”

“No more than usual.”

Sherlock nods.This is something else then.“John, it’s not in my nature to consider things like getting the shopping.But if you leave me a list somewhere I’m sure to see it, or text me, I am more than happy to…”

“This isn’t about that.”

“Oh.”

“This is about—me.Me being me, which means that I’m ruining all of this before we’ve ever begun, and I—I can’t do that again, I just…”John covers his face again, and turns away.

Sherlock is confused.“John you’re being the same as you always are, I don’t…”

“Exactly!”His head pops up, eyes slightly wild.

_Oh._

“You forget, I’ve lived with you before.I know your moods, your foibles, your habits.You don’t have to become someone else, just because we’re…”

“Has it ever occurred to you that I don’t actually like getting that way with you?” John interrupts.

“Then apologise, and do better.But don’t do—this.”Sherlock waves a hand at John’s slumped posture, his red eyes, the ludicrous signs of self-loathing radiating from every cell.

“What?”

“This,” Sherlock repeats.“You don’t have to do this, feel this way about it.Apologise, and just try to tell me what you need in the future.It’s what you said in your letter.You won’t always get it right, but when you don’t, you’ll do your utmost to do better.That’s what you’ve promised, so do it.”

A muscle in John’s jaw twitches.He is trembling, though Sherlock isn’t sure he realises it.“I’m sorry I snapped at you.I’m bloody exhausted all the time lately.I can barely get through work.”

“The last two years have been…I imagine these things take time.”

“Christ, I’m getting old.”

Sherlock smiles.“I could start calling you Old Man, if it would make you feel better.”

“Don’t you dare,” John smiles back, weakly.

Sherlock reaches out, touches John’s shoulder, lets his hand run down the length of his arm, meshes their fingers.“I read your letter again, today.”

“How many times is that, then?”

“I’ve lost count.”

John huffs softly.“Felt like an inadequate gift, but it seems a success.You given it any thought?”

“Yes.”

John shifts a little on the mattress.“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.One of the things I want is this.”John’s brow furrows in confusion, and Sherlock rushes to continue.“No more retreating.We face things together.That’s what I want.”

“Oh.Okay.”

“Good.”

Silence descends between them.Sherlock can hear Rosie singing along to the movie out in the lounge. 

John squeezes his hand.“Sherlock, when I asked that question, I didn’t just mean…”

“I know.You were mostly thinking of sex.”

John’s cheeks instantly flush bright red.Sherlock is disproportionately charmed. 

“Yeah…Not mostly, but it was a part of it, I suppose.Yeah.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too.”

“Oh…?”

“Yes.But I think this,” Sherlock motions between them.“Is just as important.I need to know that you can tell me things.”

“Such as?”

“If you aren’t comfortable with something.”

“Like what?’

“Anything.Anything we might try, or choose to do.And it’s important to me that you know, John, that if you never want that to be a part of what we have, I’m alright with that too.”

“You don’t want it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then—what is this?”

“It’s me making sure you don’t feel expectation, pressure.You’re already putting undue pressure on yourself.I don’t want—I want to make love to you.I don’t want it to feel like a performance—for either of us.” 

John looks lost.“I don’t understand.”

The doorbell rings, and Sherlock rolls his eyes with a sigh.“The food.”

“Yeah.I’ll get it.We can talk more tonight after Ro goes down, okay?”

“Alright.”

* * *

Dinner is strange.All the easy comfort Sherlock has come to expect of his time with John has seemingly vanished.He talks to Rosie more than he does to Sherlock.He keeps staring at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, when he thinks he isn’t looking.He picks at his food, and keeps eyeing the cabinet in the kitchen where they keep the alcohol.

Sherlock volunteers to bathe Rosie, and put her down for the night, both to alleviate any fussing (she almost always insists on him now), and to get away from John.He hates it, the strange, awkward energy that seems to have come between them since earlier. 

He shouldn’t have said anything.He should have let it be.Too much talking.John doesn’t like talk, he likes action.Too many words and he just shuts down.Sherlock has no one to blame but himself.

When he finally comes back downstairs, John is seated on the sofa.He has the television pulled over, and is flipping through the channels.“You want to watch something?”

Sherlock doesn’t, but he does want to sit next to John on the sofa, tucked under the crook of his arm, which is currently propped on the back of the sofa in invitation.

“Alright.”

He goes.He sits.John lifts his hand, and starts rubbing the pads of his fingers gently against Sherlock’s scalp the minute Sherlock curls against his side.It’s Sherlock’s favourite of all the intimate touches he has thus far catalogued with John.It never fails to calm and arouse.A pleasant kind of arousal, that starts off quiet, and builds, and builds.He tucks in a little more snugly, and lets himself relax.

John stops on some action film Sherlock doesn’t know, and doesn’t particularly care to.It doesn’t matter, really, because John is touching him, and there isn’t room for much else in his brain.Sherlock’s almost fallen asleep when John finally speaks.

“Better?”

“Mmm?”

“You feeling better now?”

Sherlock cracks an eye open, and stares up at John, and John’s mouth twitches into a fond and crooked grin.“Hi.”

“Hello.”

“Missed you today.”

Sherlock isn’t sure why, but he is surprised by this piece of information.“Oh?”

John huffs out a laugh.“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“No, I…I missed you too.”

“Yeah?Well, good.”

Sherlock smiles back, and then tucks his face back against John’s chest.He can smell him.It’s heady and wonderful, the mix of faded cologne, and sweat, and a little hint of disinfectant from the surgery.

John’s fingers scratch gently against his scalp, and then slowly tighten into a fist.The gentle tug is delicious.Sherlock imagines John easing his head back, pressing his mouth against his exposed neck.There is a thrill in the fantasy he never would have imagined, submitting to John in that way, vulnerable, exposed, trusting…He shivers, and John’s hold loosens.

“You okay.”

“Mmm…”It is deeper, and more drawn out than he had planned, more moan than reply.John shifts a little where he sits, and Sherlock watches, riveted, as the front of John’s trousers begins to strain against a burgeoning erection.His mouth waters.

He files the information away for future consideration.He has always had to be so careful to keep quiet when pleasuring himself, that it seems foreign and slightly awkward to let himself go to the point where he is vocalising his pleasure, but John seems to respond to it—very favourably.

John’s fingers are moving against his scalp again, he is shifting in his seat again, the bulge beneath his trousers grows, presses firmly against the fabric to the point where Sherlock almost thinks he can make out details.He wants to touch, but…

John’s fingers knot in his hair.When he hums in appreciation and encouragement, John’s cock twitches.

Sherlock licks his lips. 

He reaches out and tentatively lays a hand on John’s thigh, midway up, not too close, but close enough that the overture is unlikely to be mistaken for anything other than what it is—a request.

John startles a little, but then relaxes again.He’s not pushing him away, but he’s not moving, or saying, or doing anything, either.It’s enough that Sherlock thinks he might try a little more.he shifts his hand just the slightest bit, and drags his fingers lightly up and down, once, on the inside of John’s thigh.John’s chest rises and falls in quick succession beneath his ear, his head dropping against the back of the sofa.

Sherlock moves his fingers again, stroking gently, occasionally pinching small bits of fabric between his fingers, only to let go again.He moves his hand a little higher, and John sucks in a small breath, his hand suddenly shooting up to cover Sherlock’s.

Too much.Sherlock turns his hand, palm up, atop John’s thigh, an apology, an offering.He waits.Finally, John’s fingers stir against his palm, inch toward his fingers, mesh together.Sherlock feels him tilt his head over and to the side.He presses his face into Sherlock’s hair, and breathes.

They should talk.They should.But John hates talk, and they have managed without words in the past…

Sherlock’s attention is drawn back towards their hands.John is pulling his away.He reaches out, and turns Sherlock’s hand over again, palm down, presses, eases it a little higher up his thigh.

_Oh…_

Sherlock tentatively moves his fingers, the same gentle strokes as before.John’s breath catches, his chest tensing, a slight tremble passing through him, but he doesn’t push Sherlock away this time.And Sherlock has learned something from the last misstep.Let John lead without him thinking he is leading.There is a safety in that, that he needs.

Sherlock continues until John’s thigh shifts under his hand, falls open, tilts upward causing Sherlock’s hand to naturally slide up, closer, so close that he could brush the thick, twitching line of John’s, clothed cock with the backs of his knuckles, so close Sherlock can already feel the heat of him.

John’s lips press against his scalp, he sighs into Sherlock’s hair, his hips rock almost imperceptibly, but it is enough movement to brush Sherlock’s fingers against him, and he makes a sound almost like a sob.Half moan, half whine, but cut off suddenly at the end, like he is almost ashamed of the intensity of what he’s feeling.

Sherlock is dizzy, his own want now so insistent that it is growing somewhat uncomfortable.He would love for John to undress him, to lay him out on the bed in their shared room, and cover him, envelop him, take him in, deep, until he comes shuddering and gasping into the warm, enveloping heat of John’s body.

He sighs at the thought, and then gasps at the rush of blood that pushes his state into the realms of near unbearable.“ _John…_ ”Moaned, without a thought, on instinct, desperate for something, anything to ease this thing which has built so swiftly to the breaking point.

John makes the same sound as before, but drawn out this time, a definite whine, small, and hungry, and desperate, and then he is knotting his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, pulling his head back and crashing their mouths together so suddenly, so perfectly that it punches the oxygen from Sherlock’s lungs.

John’s mouth is hot, and sweet with the phantom of rice and jasmine tea.His tongue plunges into Sherlock’s mouth, tangling, tasting him, exploring. 

Sherlock’s brain whites out for the briefest of moments.So much sensory information at once, but then he is kissing back, deeply, sliding his tongue along the side of John’s to tentatively enter his mouth. 

It is wildly intimate, being inside John’s body in this way, different from, and in many ways better than he had imagined.There are moments where he can’t tell where he ends and John begins. 

Fascinating. 

Gorgeous.

John still has one hand in his hair, clasping and unclasping in a rhythm Sherlock imagines must match the throbbing insistency of his arousal.His other hand is knotted in the back of Sherlock’s shirt, iron tight, shaking.Sherlock wonders if John might tear the offending garment from his body in one powerful pull, send buttons pinging across the room.

His cock throbs at the thought, and John, who without Sherlock’s notice has somehow maneuvered himself nearly in Sherlock’s lap, knee pressed between Sherlock’s thighs, hovering over and around him, moans deep at the sensation.

Sherlock wants to reach back and pull John’s body against his, but there is no need, he suddenly realises, as John is leaning, pressing into him, the weight of his body, pushing them both down on the sofa.And still John is kissing him, as his body shivers and shudders, as he shifts, presses, moans, rocks a slow building rhythm against Sherlock’s body. 

Sherlock can hardly breathe.It’s _so_ good, and he’s so close, and if John were to stop now, he knows he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from crying out in protest.But John isn’t stopping, he’s canting his hips faster, and faster, rubbing the hard line of his cock against Sherlock’s.It has to be as uncomfortable for him as it is for Sherlock, with them both fully clothed, the friction of fabric against sensitive skin, rough, and hot, a mingling of pleasure and slight pain that is very swiftly overwhelming Sherlock’s system.But still John doesn’t stop, his movements only speed up, grow more erratic—frantic—desperate.

John comes suddenly, without warning, and with a sharp cry so like a sob that it makes Sherlock want to wrap him up and hold him close—forever, forever if he is allowed.He would.He will.But, Sherlock burns.He needs to find his own release.He’s beyond the point of no return, and he needs to come soon, before John comes down, becomes too sensitised, before the bliss wears off. 

He grabs John’s arse, shifts him slightly, and pulls him more tightly against his body.John’s back arches beneath his hands, he sighs, presses his mouth messily against Sherlock’s neck as Sherlock thrusts against the tense muscles of John’s thigh, once, twice, three times, and comes hard with loud groan of relief. 

He goes boneless, John’s body a comforting weight, an anchor atop his.

Everything goes quiet.

It takes several minutes for his head to clear, to begin to register the important details in the aftermath of everything that has just happened.The clock is still ticking loudly in the kitchen.Mrs. Hudson is hoovering downstairs ( _had they been that loud?_ ), a large lorry roars past on the street below.And then he realises—John is crying.

Sherlock doesn’t know if it is good or bad.He follows instinct, and hopes it is the right choice.

When he wraps his arms around him, John stills, shivers, sniffs against Sherlock’s chest.Sherlock was afraid he might get up and leave, but he’s not, he’s staying.That’s something.That’s good.

“I’m sorry,” mouthed against the sweat-damp fabric of Sherlocks shirt.

“Why?”

John sniffs again.“I didn’t mean for that to…”

“I wanted you to.I’ve wanted you to for some time.”Sherlock tightens his arms around John’s back, relishes in the way John’s trembling diminishes, the way the growing tension in his body lets go.Sherlock tilts his chin down and kisses the top of John’s head. 

“I didn’t know…”John sounds small and slightly lost.

“That I’ve wanted this?”

“No.That I wanted it so...That I needed…I didn’t know that it would be—like it was.”

Sherlock’s stomach twists.“Was it—alright?”

“It was—so easy.”

Sherlock doesn’t understand.He is sticky and uncomfortable, but the warmth and comfort of John’s body, of his breath wafting through his shirt with every word mouthed against his chest, is something he doesn’t want to lose, so he lifts a hand to trace down the length of John’s spine instead.

“Maybe…”John’s hand slides up, over Sherlock’s chest to rest in the crook where shoulder meets neck, slides over his shoulder, down his arm, until he find his hand, takes hold, and lifts it to tuck under his chin.“Maybe I was waiting for you.”

“Lovely thought,” Sherlock murmurs into John’s hair.

John sniffs.“You think I’m mad.”

“No.I think you’re perfect.”He feels John tense at the words, but he relaxes again, when Sherlock kisses the top of his head.“A bath may be in order, I think.”

“Mm, sounds nice.”

“Together?”Because he has to be sure.

“Yeah.You want to use some of that posh stuff you got me for Christmas?”

“If you like.”

“Sherlock?”John finally cranes his neck up to look at him.

Sherlock smiles down at him in response.“Mmm?”

“You are okay, yeah?I didn’t mean to get so carried away.”

“Feel free to get carried away any time.”He grins, and John breaks into a smile of his own.

He chuckles.“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.”

John stirs in an attempt to get up, and Sherlock grimaces at the mess in his pants.“Ugh, a bath is definitely in order.”

“Yeah.Sorry.”

“Stop apologising.I’ve been longing to get you out of your clothes.You’ve just handed me the perfect opportunity.”

John smirks even as his cheeks flush.

Sherlock waggles an eyebrow, and John laughs out loud.“I love you, you know.”

“I know.I love you too.”

The bath is long, and luxuriant.They take their time, and with much of the urgency of their mutual desire temporarily allayed, they are able to relax into it, to take their time exploring and appreciating one another’s bodies, talking about everything and nothing, in low murmurs, and chuckles until the water has cooled and they are forced to get out before they catch a chill.

When they finally slide beneath the sheets, it is John who reaches out first, inviting Sherlock in, tangling, their warm, naked, scented limbs, and settling, at last, into a mutual calm that feels shelter, that feels like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who read along, to honeybeelullaby, who came up with the idea in the first place, and who provided all the fantastic prompts, to chained-to-the-mirror who created all the wonderful art, which was so inspiring. And to both of them for letting me join in on their joint project at the last minute. It was such a joyful part of the holiday season.


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